m 



:%. ,*^ 



wH 



I i i! 



I' ! 
i M 






i 



nil" 
nii- 



I H 



Wi\ 



Ma 



"^ 1 / 




mmm 






Hiliiiililm^^ 





Class ^ ^^S I S 

Book 3 7 5'S-7 

fapyrightN" ^103 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




^r^f^' 



w 



\jc 






^^ 'i .' —'''■ >■' ' 






SONGS 



OF THE 



WILDWOOD 

BY 

MRS. MARCElvIvA M. HINES 
(FLORA WILDWOOD) 




BOSTON : 

C. W. CALKINS & CO., PUBLISHERS 

1903 



T's -s> nr 



LiBfiAfxY <.f CONGRESS 
Two Copies fteceji^ed 

FEB 9 1904 

\ Copyright Entry 

CLASS a, xXc. No. 

^ 1 ' ' 
COPY 



1 






Copyright, 1903, 

BY 

ELLA H. STRATTON. 



CONTKNTS. 

Page 

Minstrel, Why Art Thou Sad? 9 

To My Mother 10 

Appeal to New England 11 

A Day Amid Old Scenes 12 

To My Brother 1/5 

I am Lonely 16 

I was Angry 17 

I Miss Thee 18 

My Rosebud.^ 18 

Stanza 20 

Disappointment 21 

A Birthday Orisoi! 21 

" Misfortunes are not Alwaj's Evils" 23 

Ode to Sleep 24 

Stray Thoughts at Midnight 25 

A Sabbath Eve . . 26 

The Old and the New 27 

Aweary 29 

My Birthday . . . ' 31 

Ihe Mother's Blessing 32 

Wemu8t Part 34 

To an Old Coat 35 

A Chapter from Life i'." 36 

The Myrtle vs. the Poppy 37 

Musings at a Bridal. (To the Bridegroom.) 38 

(To the Bride) 39 

Changeless Love 40 

May 41 

He Says He Loves Me 42 

Almost There 44 

Jime 44 

Musings of a Pohtician's Wife 45 

Near and Far 46 

5 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Aroostook Railroad 47 

To Magawisca 48 

Edward Moulton 49 

To Lizzie 50 

I've Seen the Editors. Part 1 51 

I've Seen the Editors. Part II 52 

Thanksgiving 53 

Lines 54 

The First Snow 54 

Bring Back Those Coats 55 

Who Kissed the Editor? 56 

Alone 58 

Gently 59 

The Two Gardens 60 

In the City 61 

Brother, Come Home 62 

Scandal 63 

Churning— And What Bridget Thought of It 63 

Let the World Wag — A Reverie 64 

Ansiver Me (Florence Percy) 65 

I Answer 1 hee 66 

Kiss Me Before You Go 69 

Mrs. Elizabeth Pratt 70 

" Shake Hands" 70 

Change 71 

The Fire-Friend 72 

Daguerreotype 74 

George W. Pratt 75 

To the Aroostook Volunteers 76 

If the Soul is Beautiful 77 

Song 77 

Oh, Foolish Miller! 78 

Moonlight 79 

My Birthday 80 

Build TTp the Wall 81 

The Rain-Spirits 82 

6 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

Whither? 83 

The Blessed Rain 83 

Over the Hill 84 

Gone 85 

Unfortunate 85 

One Thanksgiving Day 86 

The European Conflict 87 

Lines in a Prize-Book 87 

The Hardest Part of the Battle 88 

Take What You Will 89 

Land of the Sky 89 

The Land Pirate 90 

The Key '. 90 

Christmas Garlands 91 

Barnum J. Hines 91 

Easter Lilies 92 

Recompense 92 

Among the Mountains 93 

Hurrah for Old Kennebec ! 93 

Ready 94 

Dandelions 94 

Little Bird on the Cherry Tree 95 

Should We? " • 95 

Adown the Bay 96 

Ruth Hall Hines 96 

Good-Bye 97 

One By One 97 

If I Had 98 

Are They All There, Mother? 98 

Nearing the River. (Zelpha Hines Claik; 99 

The Boatman Pale 100 

S. Wesley Stratton 100 

The Two Birds 101 

Very True 102 

When the Master Calleth 102 

Seasonable 103 

7 



CONTENTS. 

Pagk 

Have You Seen My Darling ? 103 

Hall's Mill, Hartford, Me 104 

The Bride of Winter 105 

April 106 

Walking in the Shadow 106 

Under the Apple-Tree 107 

Cora Bell Cole 108 

AUie 109 

What is Home Without a Mother? 110 

The Bride's Opals Ill 

Miracles 112 

Ruth Howland Hall 114 

A Paradox 115 

Wedding Bells. To E. W. R 116 

To Mr. and Mrs. C. C. K 116 

After Many Years. 1846-1886 117 

A Golding Wedding 118 

Turned Out of Doors 119 

Snowbird 120 

Our Roy. (Roy F. Bartlett) 120 

Only a Little While 121 

A Woman of Fashion 122 

A Modern Marriage 123 

The Love Knot 124 

Our Mary 125 

Remember — Forget 125 

In the Fog 126 



POEMS. 



MINSTREL, WHY ART THOU SAD? 

Minstrel, why is thy voice so low, 
Thine eyes so dim'd with tears? 

Lady, my harp but echoeth now 
The vanished hopes of years. 

I once, like thee, from care was free, 

No shade was on my brow. 
But often I, unknowing, sigh, 

And breathe my sad songs now. 

Lady, I loved as few have loved, 

My love but once can live, 
I gave, as at her shrine I knelt. 

All that I had to give. 

And she was pure as angel's dream. 

Fair as the evening star. 
Where its mild, heavenly radiance gleams 

Upon us from afar. 

Death came with gentle hand and claimed 

The fair girl as his own ; 
He bore her to the spirit land. 

And now I am alone. 

And dost thou ask why I am sad 

And breathe a mournful lay? 
Lady, the fair, the beautiful, 

From earth has passed away. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

I'm thinking of thee now, Mother, 

The teardrop in my eye, 
Which riseth to its overflow. 

But answereth a sigh. 
My heart is very sad, Mother, 

As far from thee I roam ; 
My mind is lingering mournfully 

Around my wildwood home. 

And memory ever true. Mother, 

Doth now before me bring 
Each well-remembered haunt. Mother, 

Each old familiar thing; 
Each loving word of thine. Mother, 

I listen to once more, 
And as my fond heart thrills with them, 

They're dearer than before. 

Ah! well-beloved friends, Mother, 

Do sweetly on me smile. 
And words of trustful tenderness 

The fleeting hours beguile ; 
While round my neck now twines, Mother 

My little sister's arm. 
And from my cheek she steals a kiss, 

With winning childhood's charm. 

But now the scene doth change. Mother, 

Thy cheek with tears are wet ; 
Still doth the parting kiss you gave 

On my lips linger yet. 
And still I see thy look, Mother, 

Which bade me trust in God, — 
And Virtue's ways I still will love; 

The path which thou hast trod. 

10 



APPEAL TO NEW ENGLAND. 

Sons of freemen ! has the tyrant bound ye by some 

magic spell? 
Waken from your thoughtless dreaming — hear ye 

not the solemn knell 
Tolling for departed glory? List those notes as on 

they spread, 
Like the march of Southern coffles, with their slow, 

despairing tread. 

Once again those notes are rising, — 'tis a father's 
anguished tone, — 

And a mother's farewell blessing is that broken- 
hearted moan, — 

'Tis the clash of chains and fetters, 'tis the driver's 
whip ye hear, 

'Tis the wronged ones' call for justice, — fall they 
on a heedless ear? 

Rouse ye, sons of free New England, 'tis no time for 
dull delay. 

With the wail of fettered bondmen swelling louder 
every day. 

With the circle of your freedom growing smaller 
every hour, 

With your sons as felons dying in the cells of South- 
ern power. 

They are trampling on your liberties, your freedom 

is at stake; 
To the ballot box then onward, and a lifelong effort 
• '-^ make ; 

Give that servant its "instructions," and the world 
' -rl will hear its voice. 
Then the demon slavery'll tremble, and man once 

more rejoice. 

11 



In tones of thunder bid it say, "Our children ye may 

bind, 
But ah! ye soon will learn this truth, ye cannot 

chain the mind; 
'Tis free, and it shall ever be, free as the winds that 

play. 
Free as the ocean billows, which no mortal hand 

can stay. 

"Ye say our sons and daughters are helping off your 

slaves, 
That we are but base kidnappers, but miscreants 

and knaves. 
That ye can mould us as ye will, that we to you must 

bow. 
That, like your own chained bondmen, must do your 

bidding now. 

"No! by the rights ye've trampled down, we swear 

to never rest, 
Until this whole broad nation with liberty is 

blessed, 
Until the flag of freedom o'er Columbia is unfurled. 
And 'America' shall cease to be the byword of the 

world." 
Written in 1858. 

A DAY AMID OLD SCENES. 

The rooms so familiar looked strangely lone, 
For there fell on my ear no loving tone ; 
But a stranger's glance was upon my face, 
And a stranger sat in my mother's place. 
While children's voices rang out in glee 
A musical cadence unknown to me; 
But they spoke to my heart of days gone by, 
And I turned away with a tear-dimmed eye. 

12 



The swallows were chirping under the eaves, 
The robins were singing amid the leaves; 
But they seemed to have learned a sadder lay 
Than that which they sang in my childhood's day, 
Then circled so gracefully around my head, 
As if knowing still the hand where they fed. 
And with that gentle, half-sorrowful strain 
Fondly welcomed back the exile again. 

The rosebush I planted, and joyed to see 

Its pure buds gratefully blooming for me, 

'Twas my earliest friend, and I loved it well, 

Had withered away, as under a spell. 

And the lilac-tree, which my mother reared. 

By childhood sacredly, firmly endeared, 

Scarce lived ; its wide branches with moss o'ergrown, 

And tall, dark weeds all around it strewn. 



I sought out the spot where the grape-vine hung ; 
It was clinging still, as of old it clung, 
To a fair, young tree which loved, in its pride, 
The trembler, so frail, which grew by its side. 
'Twas clinging there still, but its tendrils wore 
Not the fresh, green look which they early bore; 
But the clasp of death had bound it there. 
With its leaves all withered, its broad stem bare. 

I turned with a sigh to the pebble-strewn shore, 

But the plank was rotten I'd bounded o'er. 

The tiny waves came like old friends to me, 

And danced at my feet, oh, so merrily! 

And they cooled my lip, and they bathed my brow, 

And sung me a song so lovingly low 

That I half forgot, in its soothing lay, 

The home and the friends that had passed away. 

13 



The shady old orchard was still the same, 
And I called each tree by the loved one's name;* 
They nodded their heads, as the soft wind sighed, 
With a mournful tone, through their branches wide, 
As bidding me welcome, those dear old trees! 
How thrillingly sweet were the memories 
Which rushed, like a flood, on my dreamy brain 
As I sat in my favorite haunt again. 

I thought of the time when, artless child, 
I wove gay visions, so earnest and wild, 
Of a future untouched by change or blight ; 
Each object was clothed in a rainbow light. 
And playmates so guileless had sported there. 
And wove fresh wreaths for our frolicsome hair, — 
The hair we had loosed by the merry bound. 
And tangled by chasing the butterfly round. 

We had sweet friends dwelling everywhere : 
The lily unfolding its petals fair. 
The blithe humming-bird, on the primrose-tree, — 
Each bird, and each flower, and all things free. 
The sportive wind joined in our gambols oft. 
And tinted our cheeks with its kisses soft. 
While our pet birds sang us a tune so sweet, 
As we danced round their nests with untaught feet. 

Then my brow grew sad — I thought of the doom 
Which wrapped our bright hopes in an early gloom 
Till my heart was full, and I leaned my head 
Where the violets made me so soft a bed ; 
And the old trees watched o'er my slumber long. 
And sweet birds sang me a lullaby song, — 
Long years were erased from memory's scroll 
As I lay and dreamed on that grassy knoll. 

* Each one of the family had a particular tree named for them. 
14 



TO MY BROTHER. 

For weeks, long weeks, I've watched thee day by day, 
And still from off thy paling cheek the health hue 

fades away ; 
Thy weak'ning form is wasting fast, thy pulse is faint 

and low. 
And what the future bideth thee, our God alone can 

know. 

My heart is sad, my brother, as I stand beside thee 

now, 
And lift, with mournful tenderness, the damp locks 

from thy brow; 
But as I meet thy pain-dim'd eyes, raised gratefully 

to me, 
I know that sickness strengtheneth the tie which 

binds to thee. 

My mind is wandering, brother, to our home, far, 

far away. 
Where the wild birds sing most sweetly, where the 

brightest sunbeams play. 
Where the holy stars look fondly down to bless us 

with their love, 
And whisper softly of a home, a glorious home above. 

Yes, I'm thinking of our home, brother, in fancy now 

I see 
Our brothers in their joyous sports, our sisters in their 

glee. 
Our father, with his noble brow deep lined by many 

a care, 
Our mother, with her gentle eye,— I see them— all 

are there. 

15 



But on that dear old home, brother, a shadow soon 

must fall ; 
Its hearts are so enwoven, if one suffers, so do all. 
E'en now the sad-winged messenger is speeding on 

its way. 
And happy faces will give place to anxious ones 

to-day. 

My heart is sad, my brother, as I stand beside thee 

now, 
And lift, with mournful tenderness, the damp locks 

from thy brow. 
He who of old raised the sick and burst death's 

cruel bands, 
Is none the less All-powerful — I trust thee in His 

hands. 



I AM LONELY. 

"I am lonely," sang a maiden, 
In a trembling voice and low, 
While her bosom's rapid heaving 
Told that she had cause for grieving, 
More than a fictitious woe ; 
"I am lonely," sang a maiden, and the words fell 
soft and slow. 

"I am lonely; oh, relentless 
Fate to sever those that love. 
To deprive me of the blessing 
Which was mine while thus possessing 
One whose love did ever prove 
Like oasis in a desert, where the wearied travelers 
rove. 

16 



"I am lonely; fancy gazeth 
Through the mist of coming years 
With prophetic eye and tearful; 
Readeth she a record fearful, — 
_ Mocking hopes and anxious fears, 
Daysof anguish, months of sorrow, ere the loved 
again appears. 

"Ere upon my warm lips pressing 
Steals the kiss of love again. 
While the murmured word caressing, 
And the earnest, low-breathed blessing, 
Shall I listen for in vain. 
As the straying Highland soldier yearneth for a 
home-like strain. 

"I am lonely," sang a maiden, 
In a trembling voice and low; 
"For each moment, slowly telling, 
Do the broad waves, proudly swelling. 
Bear him onward in their flow. 
Farther from my eager clasping" sang a maiden, 
soft and low. 



I WAS ANGRY. 

I was angry this morn, and I blush with shame 

As I think of my folly to-night ; 
It matters not now, e'en were others to blame. 

If my conscience says I was not right. 

There's a blot on my mem'ry, a stain on the page 
The All Just hath recorded to-day; 

Ah, me ! I have caused the dark spot by my rage, 
And I cannot now wash it away. 

17 



I MISS THEE. 

I miss thee when the morning light 
Breaks gently o'er the eastern sky, 

Dispelling all the shades of night, — 
I miss thy sweetly sad "good-bye." 

When sultry noon each lab'rer brings 

Home from his daily toil awhile, 
I miss the joy thy spirit flings 

O'er mine, in that glad, grateful smile. 

When evening, with her starry sheen 

Of holy spell, asserts her right, 
I turn from the enchanting scene 

And miss, beloved, thy fond "good-night." 



MY ROSEBUDS. 

I greet thee not, New Year, I cannot bring 
A garland of fresh flowers for thy brow. 

For hope's bright blossoms all are withering, — 
They have but little early fragrance now. 

Last year I met thee with a smile most bright 
And heart most merry in thy gleeful train; 

That joyous heart, that happy spirit's light 
Have passed away, — they will not come again. 

For three sweet buds were nestled on my breast, — 
A rare bouquet I nevermore may see; 

But my full heart was all too richly blest, 

They drooped and died. God gave — He took 
from me! 

16 



One was a fair and gentle boy, whom oft 

I watched with all a mother's love and pride, 

With silken hair, and eyes so dark and soft; 
He was too pure for earth, therefore he died. 

They laid my darling, all so cold and white, 
On the low bed where he so often slept. 

And through that long, dark, lonely, silent night 
A loving vigil by his side I kept. 

I thought my cup was full e'en to the brim. 
Another drop would cause its overflow ; 

I could not see the thronging shadows dim, 

Which death was flinging round my thresholdjow. 

I had a merry, blithesome little girl, 

With bounding step, and voice of silvery tone. 

With bright cheeks kissed by many a wand'ring curl, 
And bright eyes gazing fondly in my own. 

How my lone heart doth miss her glad caress. 

Her twining arms, and sweet "mamma, good-bye." 

How treasure up her grace and loveliness, 
O God, that all things beautiful should die! 

Perchance she heard her brother 'mid the choir 
Of loving angels, with his harp new given ; 

She recognized the scarce forgotten lyre. 

And plumed her wings instinctively for Heaven. 

Then came the last of the fated three. 

With dimpled hands and brow of purest snow, 

Pleading in helplessness of infancy 
That the stern spoiler would avert the blow. 

In vain. Death saw in him too fair a flower 
To fade and wither 'neath a chilling sky. 

And bore him in his bosom to a bower 

Where rare buds bloom, that never droop or die. 

19 



When memory whispers of the joyful shout, 
And voices mingling in their childish glee, 

Of wild, rich laughter, ringing gaily out, 
Most thrilling music in the world to me, — 

When in full force upon this stricken heart 
Th' unbroken silence weigheth wearily. 

When murmuring words and tears unbidden start, 
And life seems worthless, passing drearily, 

Then fall sweet voices on my listening ear, 
As dying notes from the iEolian thrill, 

In tones so soft, so rich, so silvery clear, 

"Dear mother, weep not, we are with thee still. 

Weep not, thou'rt blind and canst not see the way ; 

Yet, to our sight, no love tie has been riven. 
Three angels watch thee fondly day by day ; 

Three angels wait to welcome thee to Heaven." 



STANZA. 

"My album is a garden plot 
Where all my friends may sow." 

A garden plot? Then I will bring 

A flower that blooms unwitheringly, — 

Its leaves less bright in joyous hours, 

But, when the cloud of sorrow lowers, 

Its buds expand, its petals fair 

Shower fragrance on the darkened air. 

Knowest thou this plant? Its name is love,- 

A rare exotic from above; 

A purer cannot grace thy bower, — 

Darling, wilt thou accept the flower? 

20 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 

This world is a vale of sorrow and trial, 

Its brightest buds fade, be they ever so fair; 
From the cradle we drink from the cup self-denial, 
And are chained to the feet of tyrannical care. ' 
We anticipate ever. 
But participate never. 
The joys and the pleasures we once hoped to share. 

'Tis disappointment alone that can teach us 

What weak and dependent creatures we are ; 
'Tis that doth prepare us when death's call doth 
reach us, 
To cast off with joy the frail bodies we bear — 
And the world gladly leaving, 
O'er false hopes ne'er grieving, 
Be guided by angels. Heaven's pleasures to share. 



A BIRTHDAY ORISON. 

Father in Heaven, the day is past. 

And on my bended knee 
I pour my heart's deep feeling out 

In thankfulness to Thee. 

Thou'st watched me when, a wayward child, 

The hours unheeded flew, 
And my young heart was almost wild 

With pleasure, ever new. 

When youth gave place to maidenhood 

Thine eye was on me still. 
Thine angels "watched o'er me for good," 

A shield 'twixt me and ill. 

21 



Thou'st borne with my ingratitude, 
Which dared Thy wisdom chide, 

When less than 'finite mercy would 
Have crushed me for my pride. 

I am a wife and mother now, 

And time has left a trace 
Upon the placid, childish brow, 

Upon the maiden's face. 

Yet there's no shadow on my heart, 

He hath dealt gently there, 
And spared the hopes which formed a part 

Of ev'ry thought and prayer. 

I have a child — a winsome thing 

Of artlessness and glee; 
Oh, may her young life's blossoming 

Bright as its budding be ! 

I have a husband — richly blest 

A woman's heart must be 
Which finds so fond a place of rest 

As Thou hast given me. 

Forgive my thanklessness, I pray, 

When pride and sin beguiled. 
And let Thy blessing rest for aye 

On husband, wife and child. 

Father in Heaven, the daj'^ is past, 

And on my bended knee 
My priceless treasures do I trust, 

With childlike faith, to Thee. 

22 



MISFORTUNES ARE NOT ALWAYS EVILS." 

I have been thinking all the day, 

To comfort me a season, 
When darkest shadows cloud the way 

They have some hidden reason. 
They make the sunshine seem more bright, 

When the thick gloom is shaken, 
And hearts more thankful than the light. 

Unbroken, could awaken. 

For ah, we ne'er could fully prize 

The boundless blessings given 
Did not some old remembrance rise 

Of brighter young dreams riven. 
We are poor mortals, cannot cast 

Our future, e'en if pleasant, 
We can but trace the length'ning past, 

And try to bear the present. 

But there is One who knoweth all 

The trials round us pressing, 
One who can make the shades that fall 

Not evils, but a blessing. 
One who will hear the raven's cry. 

And heed the sparrow falling, — 
Think you He scorns the trembling sigh. 

Or spurns His children calling? 

Ah no ! each low and broken sob 

Doth find a ready hearer. 
And hearts, where deepest sorrows throb. 

Will find Him all the nearer. 
Then upward look, with holy faith, 

When wild misfortunes gather. 
E'en as a child trustingly saith, 

"Thy will, not mine, my Father." 

23 



ODE TO SLEEP. 

Come, gentle sleep, I close my weary eyes 
And wait th}?^ coming with fond eagerness. 

E'en as a child, worn with long weeping, sighs 
To feel a mother's soothing, kind caress. 



I turn me restlessly from left to right, 

While bitter thoughts around my pilJow press. 

Oh, fold me closely in thy arms to-night, 
And give thy blessing, sweet f orgetf ulness ! 



Forgetfulness of every outward ill 

Which so disturbs my weary spirit's rest; 

Forgetfulness of hopes and fears that thrill 
Their melody or discord through my breast. 



And from thy home, the far-off dreamland, bring 

Sweet visions of angelic loveliness. 
And o'er my brain their witching beauty fling. 

Until my soul receives their full impress. 



Then, when the morning comes, and thou dost take 
Thy seal so softly from my slumbering lid, 

And from that inner living bid me wake 
To roam the busy haunts of life amid. 



There shall be new strength given me to bear 
Whatever trials life may have for me. 

For angel voices whisper even there, 

Voices which come to me so oft through thee. 

24 



STRAY THOUGHTS AT MIDNIGHT. 

I thought we'd meet to-night, love, I hoped we'd 
meet to-night. 

But faster falls the shadows, and faster fades the 
light, 

The long, dim road grows dimmer each moment to 
my sight, 

I know, I know full well, love, we cannot meet to- 
night. 



fTis hard to say good-bye, love, 'tis hard to say 

good-bye, 
To the fond hopes I've cherished in thinking thou 

wert nigh, 
To see my dreams of happiness so brightly woven 

fly 

Before those falling shadows, before that fading sky. 



Dark thoughts are thronging wildly, dark thoughts 

that will not flee, 
Strange thoughts that whisper sadly, and whisper 

aye of thee, 
They tell a thrilling story of danger unto me ; 
Alas, I cannot know, love, that all this may not be ! 



That loving eye may now be closed, that noble heart 

be still, 
That earnest voice may nevermore my inmost pulses 

thrill. 
Those clasping arms may folded lie, obeying not thy 

will, 
And my cup need no other drop its bitterness to fill. 

25 



Vainly I've tried to smile to-day, when I would 

rather weep, 
Vainly I've called them fancies, such as 'wildered 

spirits sweep ; 
Be they fancies or realities, a fearful guard they 

keep. 
As alone I sit at midnight, and watch while others 

sleep. 



A SABBATH EVE. 

I am sitting by my window 
This solemn. Sabbath night. 

And fancy that I almost see 
Star-gemmed wings in flight. 

Bright, glancing wings of angels 

Are passing to and fro, 
Bearing from heaven pure blessings 

To th' humble ones below. 

Stay, angels — angels tarry 
One moment on your way; 

Of those boundless, priceless blessings, 
Grant one to me, I pray. 

Ahl angels, years have passed a score 
Since first I left your band 

To spend a length'ning pilgrimage 
Upon an earthly strand. 

The passport which God gave me 
As I left heaven that morn 

On my long and tiresome journey 
Is travel-stained and worn. 

26 



Much I fear the One who standeth 
Ever at the portal bright 

Could not trace the worn-out letters 
Should I give it Him to-night. 

And this th' blessing that I crave : 
To me this night be given 

A renewal of the passport 
To ope the gate of Heaven. 



THE OLD AND THE NEW. 

The Old Year is dying, dying, 
And the New is crowned to-day; 

See the courtiers hastening, trying 
Their respects the first to pay. 

Sleigh-bells merrily are ringing 
On the clear and frosty air, 

And a glad refrain, the singing 
Of glad voices there. 

Gaily lighted many a dwelling, 
Full of joy the moments fleet, 

While rich music, proudly swelling. 
Keepeth time with dancing feet. 

But the poor old king lies lonely, 
All his flatterers have fled. 

Thinking of new honors only, 
Make no wailing for the dead. 

Turn me from the greetings, cheerful. 
Of the young and glad New Year ; 

Come we, all alone and tearful, 
To the sad, deserted bier, 
27 



Thinking of life's many changes, 

With a smile or with a sigh, 
While our fancy forward ranges 

To the future, tremblingly. 

Standing on the narrow threshold 
'Twixt the Old Year and the New, 

Gaze we, for a twelvemonth, backward. 
Looking at the false and true. 

Just such promises were made us, 
Just such merry-makings then ; 

But the Old Year's hopes all faded, — 
Can our lost faith live again? 

Through its long days, dark and dreary, 
Some have toiled with heart and brain, 

Almost hopeless, faint and weary. 
Praying but for rest, in vain. 

To some, patiently awaiting, 
Sad hearts longing to go home, 

Gently, and with loving message, 
Hath the white-robed ans-el come. 



But to others, how unwelcome 
He approached with icy breath. 

Sitting down beside the loved ones. 
Chilled them ere they thought of death . 

To such homes, alas, how heavy 

Is the blow that taketh all ! 
Leaving but a fearful shadow 

Of the coffin and the pall. ; 

28 



Look we for them in the morning, 
And at eve, they are not there; 

Ever seeking, vainly yearning, 
Find we but the vacant chair. 

While we mourn the early fallen, 
In their beauty and their pride, 

Other hearts for those make wailing 
Who had better far have died. 

For the lost, who still are living, 
With a soul all seared and dead, 

Loving evil, what a great woe, 
How can they be comforted? 

Varied sorrows! It requireth 
All our faith and trust in God 

To submit, when deeply chastened,- 
Meekly bow and kiss the rod. 

But not willingly the Saviour 
Doth afflict a humble one, — 

Reverently may we say then, 
"Father, let Thy will be done." 



AWEARY. 

She sat for hours in the window nook, 

Seemingly scanning a dear old book; 

But her eyes were dim, she saw not a word, 

The leaves were unturned, and the letters blurred; 

But she murmured oft, with a sobbing sigh, 

"Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 

29 



She watched not the moments thus come and go 

Till the sunset sky was all aglow; 

Then she sang in a plaintive undertone, 

Which sounded far more like a saddened moan, 

As upward she glanced at the purpling sky, 

!' Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 



And the stars peeped out — were they angels' eyes 

Lovingly looking from Paradise? 

And the gentle moon smiled while bringing down 

For that shaded brow a beautiful crown ; 

But her lips still murmured the mournful cry, 

** Aweary, aweary, weary am I.". 



Her cheek all its earliest freshness wore. 
And the low, sweet brow not a deep line bore ; 
But ah, 'tis not always the lapse of years 
That maketh one old, but the weight of tears,- 
The memories thronging that bid us cry, 
"Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 



And sometimes a moment crowdeth more woe 
In its one brief span than years could know. 
When sorrow's simoon, with its blasting breath, 
Makes the heart's oasis a desert beneath, 
Vainly we murmur, or struggle, or sigh, 
"Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 

She had tasted grief, — wild, terrible, deep, — 
How bitter the draught ! Well might she weep ; 
For hope's fair blossoms had withered and died, 
Rudely cast forth on that desolate tide. 
And often she whispered, with moistened eye, 
."Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 

30 



But sounding footsteps were heard in the hall, 
The lights flash forth on the parlor wall, — 
She crusheth her tears, and the ready smile 
Springeth back to her well-trained lips the while; 
And the angels alone bore the echoes by, 
"Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 

Ah, many a one in the festive throng 
Hath bandied the jest, hath sung the song. 
When the inner life, that we none can know, 
Is filled, overflowing, with wordless woe; 
When the heart-voice moaneth silently, 
"Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 



MY BIRTHDAY. 

My birthday ! And though I am now 

But one year older. 
Stern Time seems tracing on my brow 

Faint lines still colder. 

Girlhood grows sober at the view 

Of age advancing ; 
But hope, still to her trust so true. 

Onward is glancing. 

Youth, playmate of my earlier hours. 

Lingers beside me. 
Soon to desert for fairer bowers, 

Whate'er betide me. 

Dear mem'ry, with a sad, sweet smile. 

Unfolds her treasures, 
And bids me gaze with her awhile 

On childhood's pleasures. 

31 



.'Tis past — and the vast field of life 

Spreads widely round me. 
Faint not, my soul, tho' care and strife 

Darkly surround thee. 

Shrink not, though trials every hour 

Thicken before thee. 
But trust in the Eternal Power, — 

He will watch o'er thee. 



THE MOTHER'S BLESSING. 

How sweetly thou art sleeping now, my son, 

The calm, sweet sleep that childhood only knows 

Lulled by fond fancies, coming one by one; 
And all the perfume of the blushing rose 

Lingers on that smooth cheek, with dimples set, 

Which jetty lashes softly shade, my pet. 

From thy half -parted lips the breath comes thro', 
Sweet as the breath of flowers in summer time, 

When their bright petals glisten in the dew. 
And the swift mowers cut them in their prime ; 

Like sleeping lily in its place of rest, 

Soft pillowed, is the heaving of thy breast. 

How like thy father's is that youthful face, — 

How more and more like his thy broad, full brow; 

And as I part the clust'ring curls, and trace 
His image there, quick tears unbidden flow, — 

For ah, I watched, but one brief year ago, 

Another sleeper as I watch thee now. 

82 



The moon was looking just as softly in, 

And seemed to tremble, else it was my tears 

That so deceived me, for my eyes were dim 

With recent weeping — battling with such fears, 

Such bitter fears as those who, watching, know 

With one more breath the dearly loved may go. 



Thus all alone I watched him while he slept ; 

For, in that solemn night, I seemed to hear 
Triumphal marches that the angels kept 

Adown the starry pathway, still more near, 
Till, slowly opening the azure gate. 
They whispered the tired sleeper, "Come, we wait!' 



And he awoke — with what a sad surprise 
I drew that dear head to my bursting heart. 

Looked in the misty depths of those dark eyes 
And read the message there — he must depart! 

One parting kiss, one blessing for his son. 

One prayer for wife and child, and he had gone! 



And now I gaze on thee, and think of him 
And thee together, till my heart is full 

Of love unutterable — my eyes grow dim. 
While the deep fount wells up, my beautiful. 

Yet from my shelt'ring arms thy proud young life 

Longs to go out into the world's great strife. 

Ah, who shall guard thee safely there, my boy? 

Who guide thy untried footsteps, lest they stray 
'Mong hidden pitfalls, lured by some false joy, 

Till thou canst find no more "the narrow way?" 
Thy mother's earnest, prayerful blessing, given, 
Is that two Fathers guide thee up to heaven ! 

33 



WE MUST PART. 

Fate's mandate once more, love, 

Compels us to part, 
Though the vine of affection 

Is twined round each heart — 
Though its tendrils are clinging 

To every thought. 
And its blossoms outspringing 

With fond hopes are fraught. 

Yet why dost thou ask, love, 

In low, thrilling tone, — 
As, pressed to thy bosom. 

Thou call'st me thine own, — 
If my love will not perish 

When far thou dost roam? 
If still I will cherish 

Thy heart as my home? 

Oh, doubt me no more, love. 

Thine image is set 
Too deep in my heart, love, 

I cannot forget. 
The world may deride thee, 

And false friends may blame — 
I'll linger beside thee. 

The same — still the same. 



31 



TO AN OLD COAT. 

Poor old coat, so ragged, thou needst much mending, 
I think, from the many big holes that I see; 

And it likewise appears that the task is depending, 
For its execution, all upon me! 

I know 'tis a hard one, for darning and patching 
Are truly two things that I almost despise ; 

And before I begin on't I cannot help fetching 
To soothe my sad spirit, two or three sighs. 

dear! See this sleeve, rent in so many pieces. 
The mate to it everywhere almost as bad ; 

1 feel that each moment my courage decreases, 

If I'd a rich husband — don't I wish I had? 

If matches are heaven-made, he should be selected 
And ready to take me for better or worse ; 

But he comes not, alas! and so I am expected 
To drudge as I'm bidden and not make a fuss! 

I toil unbefriended, as if all depended 

On cooking nice dinners for misthress to scan ; 

The child must be tended, old clothes must be 
mended, 
And when all's attended to, sleep if I can. 

But still awhile longer I'll strive, without grumbling, 
To darn and to patch, to cook and to scrub. 

To bear needless scolding, keep children from tum- 
bling, 
Expecting no thanks for't — ah, there's the rub ! 

Now, editor, darlint, so many are rhyming. 
You'd expect me to do like the rest, I suppose ; 

But you must not expect up Parnassus far climbing, 
One who toils in the kitchen and mends the old 
clothes, 

35 



A CHAPTER FROM LIFE. 

Earnestly have I been pouring 

Over many a mystic page, 
Pondered on the fearful meaning 

Of dark passions in their rage, 
Till my heart is wildly throbbing 

With the grief it may not tell, 
And a bitter sigh is waking 

Deep in its most secret cell. 

Once I thought that no deception 

Lurked within this world of ours ; 
That the pathway to the grave was 

Through a garden strewn with flowers. 
And I longed to linger ever 

Where the sun shone clear and warm- 
Little dreamed I o'er its beauty 

E'er could sweep the blasting storm. 

Wistfully I viewed the roses 

That thy pathway did adorn, 
But I knew not 'mid their fragrance 

Lay a poisonous, deadly thorn. 
Ah, I thought thou wert so happy, 

Every joy of earth was thine; 
Now, for all the world, I would not 

Change with thee this lot of mine. 

All that wealth could ever purchase. 

All that love could e'er bestow, — 
These were thine, and, gently gliding. 

Peacefully thy life did flow. 
But the scene has changed, and vainly 

Thou dost struggle with the storm; 
On it rushes in its wildness. 

And its mists enshroud thy form. 

36 



He is false to whom thou gavest 

Trustingly thy heart and hand, 
And alone amid the tempest, 

Unprotected, thou dost stand; 
For no loving arms enfold thee. 

No fond lips to thine are pressed, 
Whispering thee, with love unchanging, 

"Lay thy head upon my breast." 

Thus I read in that strange volume, 

Whose commencement w^as so fair. 
While each length'ning chapter sayeth, 

"Faded hopes, and grief, and care. 
Trust betrayed, and true hearts broken, 

Flowers dying ere they bloom, y^ 5 
Blighted love, joys all decaying — ' 

Gorgeous sunrise, midday gloom." 



THE MYRTLE vs. THE POPPY. 

Give to others all the myrtle, for that wreath I do 

not sigh ; 
"My name is writ in water," and the waves are loud 

and high. 
And soon upon the lonely shore will the remorseless 

tide 
Sweep o'er my soul and cover all its bitterness and 

pride. 

I give back all kind remembrances for which I would 
have striven. 

For I scorn to claim mere pity where each dearer tie 
is riven — 

Give me but a wreath of poppies, while these mo- 
ments still endure, 

Bind it closely on my forehead, "oblivion is the 
cure!" 

37 



MUSINGS AT A BRIDAL. 
(To the Bridegroom.) 

'Tis a solemn vow thou'st given, 
Not mere empty words alone, 

It is registered in heaven, 
Thither by the angels borne. 

Thou hast promised to direct her 
'Mid the trials she must bear. 

By thy strong love to protect her. 
All her grief and sorrow share. 

Years may pass — that vow will bind thee. 
Firm, unchanged its links will stand. 

Though joy loiter far behind thee, 
Hope should give the parting hand. 

Time may, by his bold advances, 

Bear her loveliness away, 
Dim the eye that ever glances 

Upward lovingly to thee. 

And wilt thou as fondly cherish 

Her, whom thou hast sworn to love, 

Though the charms that w^on thee perish? 
Wilt thou then a lover prove? 

Beauty may perish, but the treasure 

Of the mind will then appear. 
That will yield thee richer pleasure, 

Th' darkest scenes of life 'twill cheer. 

Oh, may thy wedded life be ever 

Like thy present, bright and fair, — 

Joys deep flowing, like a river. 
Sparkling sunshine everywhere. 

38 



CTo the Bride.) 

Solemn is the vow thou'st spoken, 
To honor, to obey and love, — 

Though all other ties be broken, 
This as strong as life will prove. 

Love upon thee now is smiling, 
Gilding life's tempestuous sea — 

Hope, with siren tongue beguiling, 
Whispers, thus 'twill ever be. 

But this world hath many changes, 
First we prosper, then we fall ; 

Many trials God arranges 
For His children, one and all. 

And should dangers and distresses 
O'er his brow a shadow fling. 

Wilt thou, by thy fond caresses, 

Bid the unwelcome guest take wing? 

Wilt thou, all his love deserving, 
As the wife be still the bride — 

From thy holy vow ne'er swerving, 
Ever happy by his side? 

Wake him never from his dreaming 
Of thy goodness and thy worth? 

Thou art linked with angel-seeming; 
Draw him not down unto earth. 

Blissful is the lovely vision 
Of thy happy future stored, — 

Great as is thy woman's mission, 
Exceeding great be thy reward. 

39 



CHANGELESS LOVE. 

Give me love which changeth never, 
Though life's wave deceitful be, 

That will, fadeless, bloom forever, 
Binding up its life in me. 

Cheering most and loving dearest 
When the loudest roars the sea. 

Oft they say, in scorn, love faileth 
When the trial hour draws nigh. 

That affection's fond eye quaileth 
When the angry storms sweep by. 

And the heart grows cold and faithless. 
Heaves the sad, regretful sigh, 

With the worldling, who doth ever 
With deceit his heart enfold; 

Who would sell his soul forever 
For a heap of glittering gold — 

If that idol lost, it may be 

His false heart would soon grow cold. 

But when once true love upspringeth 
In a breast where lurks no ill, 

All the heart's deep stores it bringeth 
Quick attendants on its will; 

When misfortune's shadows lower, 
Clingeth closer, firmer still. 

Give me love that naught estrangeth, 
Pure as heaven's untroubled blue. 

That earth's alchemy ne'er changeth 
To its own e'er changing hue. 

Constant love, that never rangeth 
From its one star, tried and true, 

40 



MAY. 

How beautiful this soft, blue sky, 

Which every sun-ray thrills! 
How lovingly the shadows lie 

Upon those far-off hills ! 

Like a roused nation in its hour 

Of struggle, triumph, pride. 
Waters, uprisen in their power. 

Have cast their chains aside; 

Have thrown them by their mighty strength 

Over the waterfall. 
Scorned, trampled, crushed them, till at length 

Old ocean gulped them all ; 

And, by its fetters lashed no more. 

In calmer, milder mood. 
Truthfully mirrors on the shore 

The overhanging wood. 

Where, coquetting with every gleam. 

The sparkling ripples flow. 
And flitting cloud and pure sky seem 

Another heaven below. 

The budding flowers, with timid look. 

Creep downward, to behold 
Themselves reflected in the brook, 

And kiss the flatterer bold ; 

While proud trees bend their heads to hear 

If last year's favored lover. 
The flirting zephyr, wanders near, — 

That faithless, fickle rover! 

41 



He whispers tales that bring a flush 

To listening maple boughs, 
Till th' buds peep out with a conscious blush 

Of joy, at his ardent vows. 



Trembling they listen, for they fear 
The cold winds, rude and chill, 

And know not but stern winter, near, 
Hath rough attendants still. 



Yet zephyr tells of fairy trains, 
Whose queen is merry May, 

Who scatter flowers on hill and plains, 
From eve to dawn of day. 



Who bring new gifts for every tree, 
New beauties for each flower. 

New vesture for the blackened lea. 
New tints for rifled bower! 



And old trees nod with knowing look, 
Shake off their mosses gray. 

While robins watch from every nook 
For th' train of good Queen May. 



HE SAYS HE LOVES ME. 

He says he loves me ! Can it be 
That he will ever prove the same 

If, in the dim futurity, 

I should change, for his, my name? 

42 



Would no cloud gather on his brow 
When I a jesting word should speak? 

Would he as fondly then as now 
Imprint a warm kiss on my cheek? 

Still would my presence have the power 
To make his home to him most dear? 

Or in adversity's sad hour, 
Could I his saddened spirit cheer? 

Or should I soon, soon cease to be 
His greatest happiness on earth, — 

Soon lose the charm of novelty 
And be to him of little worth? 

And oh, should sickness dim my brow. 
My cheek should fade, my eye grow dull, 

Would he not break his earlier vow 
And seek for one more beautiful? 

Would he ne'er wish to break the chain 
That binds him unto one alone. 

Nor wound the heart he toiled to gain 
And vowed to cherish as his own? 

But vainly would I thus dispel 
The deep and solemn mystery 

So kindly meant ; no fairy spell 
May thus unveil my destiny. 

In years untried, if he but prove 

All that he to fancy seems. 
Then sweet content, ennobling love, 

Will realize my fondest dreams. 

43 



ALMOST THERE. 

Only a little way 
Farther to go; 
Only a little way, — 
Row, brothers, row. 
Though dark clouds may hide the stars from your 

view, 
And fierce be the tide, yet your compass is true, — 
Row, brothers, row. 

Only a little way 
Farther to go ; 
Only a little way, — 
Row, brothers, row. 
You are weary, the voyage is rough at the best, — 
After shadow comes sunshine; after labor, rest! 
Row, brothers, row! 



JUNE. 

Welcome for June — the fair, the young. 
With artless glance and bashful grace, 

And scattered flowers, as she had sprung. 
Blushing, from Spring's o'erfond embrace. 

Scarce knowing if to stay or flee. 
Or time to gather up her flowers ; 

Till Summer, bending low the knee. 
Wooes the coy maiden to his bowers. 

Kind Flora brings the choicest wreath 
That ever favoring goddess wove. 

And strews her path with flowers that breathe 
Richest perfumes from field and grove. 

44 



Each bird, on bush or bending spray, 
Or sheltered nook of favorite tree. 

Pauses 'mid labors of the day 
To trill soft notes of merry glee. 

Far out in the wild forest dim, 

The roguish, whispering leaves among, 
Bursts forth the universal hymn 

Of love, in full, rich chorus sung. 

As if, in Nature's vast domain, 

Each bud and leaf and dear bird vied 

Which one should sing the sweetest strain 
For radiant June, proud Summer's bride. 



MUSINGS OF A POLITICIAN'S WIFE. 

Untruth, with a busy and mischievous train, 
Has been peering around this election. 

Whispering tales into honest minds 
That bring me no sweet reflection ; 

Tales that I know are all cruelly false 
In their dark and malicious meaning, 

And are only used because truth will not serve 
The purpose of drift vote gleaning. 

I wish, oh, heartily wish, that ne'er 

Had they ta'en him away from his hiding, 

Exposing him thus to malice and hate. 
Low sneers and envious chiding. 

Ah, could they give back the peace, the joy 
Of our humble and quiet dwelling, 

I'd smile at their offices passing by. 

My heart with deep thankfulness swelling. 

45 



Or were I but dreaming, and might awake 
To welcome the morn with a blessing, 

And find 'neath my husband's and children's smile 
Relief from thoughts so depressing. 

But our home rest is broken, its quiet gone, 

And slander its venom is casting 
O'er each hallowed spot and each holy thought, 

With blight and with mildew blasting. 

And it is no idle, unmeaning dream 
To which such a weird shape clingeth, 

Though the heavy throb of my heart is such 
As the hand of the nightmare bringeth ! 

I must teach my voice a passionless tone, 
While untruth his doom appears sealing, 

And learn to reply with a careless glance 
To each taunt, however unfeeling. 



NEAR AND FAR. 

The kerosene lamp in the window 
Of a neighbor's house, close by, 

Outshines, in its rudd}'^ radiance. 
The stars in the far-off sky. 

And the fitful cares that so fret us. 
Earth's worries, that never cease. 

Eclipse the glorious beauty 

Of the wonderful Land of Peace. 

46 



THE AROOSTOOK RAILROAD. 

TuNK — '* The Bailroad Cars are Coming.' 

The great Aroostook railroad 

Knows no such word as fail ; 
Bring on the locomotive, 

Lay down the iron rail. 
Along the length' ning forests 

We've plodded all too slow; 
The fiery steed is panting, puffing, 

Waiting word to go. 

Our pi'neer axes ringing 

Will never spare a tree 
Whose falling makes sweet singing 

Of fields that are to be; 
Our lakes laugh back the sunshine; 

Our rivers proudly flow ; 
The iron horse is panting, puffing. 

Waiting word to go. 

We've land for thronging thousands- 
Farms of the richest soil — 

Broad acres wait their coming, 
Impatient for the toil ; 

Food for all the wee ones, 
But wants the hand to sow; 

The iron horse is panting, puffing. 
Waiting word to go. 

In Aroostook war our foeman, 

Stout Johnny Bull of old. 
Melts now the balls of iron 

In quite a diff'rent mould; 
Not round, but longer, stronger, 

A railroad track they grow ; 
The iron horse is panting, puffing. 

Waiting word to go. 

47 



Where wealth or glory calleth, 

Shrewd John finds just the place, 
The question's not who started, 

But who shall win the race ; 
In great works done like lightning 

The Yankees are not slow; 
The iron horse is panting, puffing, 

Waiting word to go. 



TO MAGAWISCA. 

Aye, thou may'st choose the myrtle, sweet one, whose 

dove-like eyes 
Beam with such calm and holy light, like gleams 

from Paradise, — 
Such loving and confiding light, such depths of purity. 
Surely, kind angel visitants must talk ofttimes with 

thee! 

The myrtle wreath becometh well thy brown hair's 

wavy fold. 
Where crown of worth and genius outshineth jeweled 

gold; 
And the hand thou lovest best of all, with gentle 

touch shall twine 
A wealth of tiny blossoms for that low, sweet brow 

of thine. 

Ah, thou wilt be well remembered, for thou hold'st 
love's magic key. 

And like perfume of sweet flowers thy memory shall 
be, — 

While those who only know thy name with glad ac- 
cord shall bring 

A spray of myrtle for thy wreath, "love's own sweet 
offering." 

48 



EDWARD MOULTON. 

Another good man fallen! From his post 

A watchman gone, whose place cannot be filled ! 

To us the providence is dark, — mysterious, almost, — 
We murmur at the hard decree — yet so God willed. 



A sick wife watcheth, with a little child. 
For his return to a far-distant home, — 

A tiny babe that ne'er had on him smiled, — 

And grouping children say, "Mother, when will 
he come?" 



Leaning upon his cane, an aged sire 

Scanneth the well-known road with misty eyes. 
While the good mother, sitting by the fire, 

Lists if the sound of distant wheels arise. 



Alas, it thus should be, for here to-day 

Is bitter mourning for a spirit flown ! 
He came a stranger, he hath passed away ; 

Stranger no more, we mourn him as our own. 

The staff of helpless age, and the strong oak 
Where twining infancy all sheltered grew, 

Is fallen; ah, most fearful is the stroke 

That smites so many through one loved and true! 

To-morrow, homeward slowly will he go. 

With fond heart pulseless, and those strong limbs 
stilled! 

God pity those who watch, in this great woe, — 
The chastening is severe — yet so God willed. 

49 



TO LIZZIE. 

It is an easy task to criticise 

Another's actions or another's life, 
To see the mote that dims another's eyes, 

And by harsh words stir up a bitter strife. 

'Twould be an easy, but an unwise, thing 

For some rude hand to crush the well-tuned lyre, 

Sweep all the music from each quiv'ring string. 
And bring forth naught but shrieking discord dire. 

Yet might a master-hand the sweet notes bring 
As smoothly flowing as if tortured never ; 

But ah, the human heart is of such fashioning 
A cruel touch will vibrate there forever. 

And are more blest dreams of thy slumber born 
By adding anguish to another's breast? 

Or is thy pillow softer for the thorn 

Thou'st planted where another's head doth rest? 

Thy short review of "Magawisca's Dream" 

Is like the sugared coating of a pill. 
Save that pills may be needful — it doth seem 

More like sweet poison, pleasing but to kill. 

This Magawisca is a friend I love, — 

A pure, true-hearted woman, too, is she, — 

Modest and unassuming. There's my glove; 
Who touches Magawisca touches me. 

Are thy lines faultless, that the critic's eye, 
The unkind critic, ne'er hast cause to frown? 

Remember, the proud eagle, soaring high. 

Stoops not to sweep the dove's young fledgeling 
down. 

50 



Wert thou the eagle, I'd rejoice with thee — 
There's room enough for all. But if thy pen 

Can find no worthier task than mockery, 
Take my advice and never write again. 



I'VE SEEN THE EDITORS. 

PART I. 

I've seen the editors, hurrah! 

The Aroostook expedition 
Differed from the Aroostook war, 

In arms and ammunition. 

No musket had the little band. 
Save that by Cowan tested. 

Shooting canards, with skillful hand. 
Where'er the low snags rested. 

No fear of bayonets had they ; 

Roberts, their safety shewing. 
Bit off a pickpole on the way, — 

A needless waste of chewing. 

The rest were weaponed well with steel. 
Pens, scissors, as it happened. 

And woe to him e'er made to feel 
Their keen points, newly sharpened. 

I never doubt where trust I can. 
But think of these quill brothers, 

Holding one up as their Poor man. 
Bigger than two of t'others! 

I'll nevermore believe a word 

Of eating such material 
As chips and sawdust, as I heard; 

They would be more ethereal. 

51 



They say that such men can be bought, — 
Who'd dare with gold to try one? 

Yet one old maid (who would have thought?) 
Said she was going to buy one ! 

Well, noble-looking men they were, 
I thought, while here they tarried; 

I'd like to be an editor. 

Or — say, were they all married? 



I'VE SEEN THE EDITORS. 

PART II. 

Yes, I've seen the editors; 

Though pleasing the inspection. 
It yet a deeper feeling stirs. 

More serious reflection. 

'Tis one of Nature's wholesome laws 
That minds of men, tho' single. 

Excited by some common cause. 
In masses meet and mingle. 

Analysis brings food for thought, — 
The whole world, every tittle, 

Its government, and nations wrought 
Of atoms, all so little! 

And these men, tho' they harmless look. 
Have much to do with moulding 

Some yielding minds in every nook, 
A weekly converse holding. 

'Tis well if they who have such power 
Give heed to words the slightest, 

When there are those who, every hour, 

Repeat their thoughts the lightest. 

52 



It seems not much on either hand, 
One man's opinions quoting, 

But when his paper takes its stand — 
Why, that is worth the noting. 

"The papers say" hath mighty sweep 
To many thousand readers ; 

They'll follow, like a flock of sheep, 
Wherever go these leaders. 

Society's a vast machine. 

Crammed full of every notion, — 
The editors the fine- wrought springs 

That keep the wheels in motion. 



THANKSGIVING. 

We thank thee, lovely Mary, 

For a delicate bouquet 
Of flowers, pure as the snowflakes, 

That came Thanksgiving day. 

Without, young Winter's fingers 
Were trembling with the cold, 

And hoards of glittering treasures 
Escaped his nerveless hold. 

Within, the fair, frail flowers 
Looked up, with love and hope 

Thanks giving, though a wintry sky 
Had watched their petals ope. 

As from these earnest teachers 
Our hearts caught richest lore. 

For the trusting, hopeful lesson 
We thanks give, even more. 

58 



LINES. 

Blessed are the early gathered 

To the heavenly fold, 
Sheltered from the driving tempest 

And the bitter cold; 
All is peace and joy and plenty 

In the heavenly fold. 

What though sudden were the summons 

To the Saviour's arms, 
To that young heart, full of loving, 

It brought no alarms. 
Blessed are the early gathered 

In the Shepherd's arms. 



THE FIRST SNOW. 

The hills were brown and desolate — 

We mourned the sudden flight 
Of the gay leaves from the tree-tops, 

Torn by the rude wind's might; 
But there came some gentle fairies 

From the pure snowland last night, 
And with touches soft and loving 

Veiled the whole in misty white. 

They had heard the ceaseless moaning 

That the childless old trees made 
For the leaves that through the summer 

Toyed with sunshine and with shade. 
Dancing lightly to sweet music 

When the wand'ring zephyr played 
On his harp, the wild ^Eolian, 

In the forest or the glade; 

54 



And they touched the naked branches, 

Shivering in the north wind's blast, 
Kindly, with a whispered blessing. 

And a mantle o'er them cast, — 
Not of Summer's flickering foliage, 

Which the young spring had amassed, 
Though they breathed of budding leaflets, 

Ere upon their way they passed. 

And this morning, as the sunlight 

Flashed among the shadows gray. 
Glittering jewels in profusion 

All along the pathway lay, 
Till the eye was almost dazzled 

By the gorgeous array, — 
Then we knew the good snow fairies. 

On their mission, passed this way. 



BRING BACK THOSE COATS. 

The Editor has lost his coat. 

And now good Lawyer Wentworth 

Cries out, "Who steals my purse steals trash,- 
'Tis not a single cent's worth ; 

But when they take my beaver blue. 

And keep it, altogether. 
They leave me wholly 'in the cold,' 

Exposed to every weather.". 

I s'pose the man who took these coats, 

And levied on his neighbor, 
To keep his body snug and warm, 

Without much extra labor, 

55 



Has read the adage old and quaint, 
While need made him quick witted, 

"If the coat fits you, put it on ;" 
He tried, and it just fitted! 

Quite heedless of an Editor 
Such doleful faces making, 

Or lawyer, to such luck unused. 
With wrath and ague shaking. 

But if to their imploring calls 

He has not yet attended, 
I beg he will — the coats he left 

Can not much more be mended. 



WHO KISSED THE EDITOR? 

Bill Patterson, of old-time glory, 

Is lost fore'er to song and story. 

It seems to all supremely silly, 

Nowadays, to ask who struck poor Billy, 

For late, within a lonely sanctum, 

An Editor was spoiling blankdom ; 

Some maidens kissed him, and he thanked 'em. 

Told of it, right out in his paper — 

Who ever heard of such a caper? 

And now, whichever way we stir. 

All cry, "Who kissed the Editor?" 

One day my work was done so early 
That misthress, tho' at times quite surly. 
Gave gracious answer to my prayer 
To take one breath of heaven's pure air; 
But, as I passed along the street, 
I thought all crazed I chanced to meet. 

56 



First came a portly looking body, 

With sparkling eye, and round cheek ruddy, 

But with his lips all in a pucker, 

For all the world like a spring sucker ; 

1 thought he'd been to whistling school 

Where a famed Yankee gave the rule, 

When, with many a curious antic. 

With voice and gesture growing frantic, 

He cried, "Where is the luscious maiden 

With such a wealth of beauty laden? 

I have a notion to be tradin' 

Editorial kisses, ere they're fadin'. 

Swap off, or make some such exchange, 

I'll pay the market's highest range ; 

My lips twist round in forms so strange, 

I'm fearful of the final change; 

But while I do live, I'll search for 

That girl that kissed the Editor." 

Just then a maiden passed us by ; 

I caught a glimpse of lip and eye. 

Chock-full of roguishness and fun ; 

Quoth I, ho Bridget, that's the one; 

Who 'twas that wrought such mischief high, 

That rogue could tell, and not half try, — 

But prudently said not a word, 

Nor told of what my eyes had heard. 

And soon there rushed along the street 

A bachelor, with flying feet, 

Mouth open wide, with such a grin, 

You might have thrown the coal hod in. 

Screamed he, "Hope's not confined to Heaven, 

For kisses still on earth are given, — 

Not in mere smacks, sir, but in smackers, 

That go off just like India crackers. 

I was not there to see the sport. 

But I have heard the loud report. 

57 



I'll be, though a mere bach'lor novice, 
A fixture near that hall or office, 
And they'll pass me, I tell you, sir, 
Before they kiss the Editor." 

But then I heard a distant baying. 

Like hounds in far-off forests straying, 

Who, when the frightened game is treed, 

Yell out in triumph at its need. 

Quoth I, what means that noise? Good lack! 

The editors are on the track ! 

And all along the shores of Maine 

Louder and louder swells the strain, 

And clearer grows the proud refrain, 

"Hurrah, boys, 'tis time to stir. 

Somebody's kissed an editor!" 

Perchance they saw the lovely maid here. 
Yet doubted if such tricks she played here ; 
But since her secret is betrayed here. 
Aha, how much they wish they'd stayed here! 



ALONE. 

Alone, like a bird tempest-driven 

Afar from the sheltering nest, 
With pinions unsteady and drooping, 

I faint for a moment of rest, 
Where the mad waves, upleaping, but taunt me. 

And mock at my wearisome quest. 

Is there never an island of refuge. 

Whose arms stretch far out to the sea 

To push back the merciless billows. 

Where the wave-worn and storm-beaten flee? 

No escape from the funeral dirges 
The mourning wind waileth for me? 

58 



GENTLY. 

Gently, ye fairies that guide the snow, 

Gently, I pray ye, let it fall 
On the withering leaves that droop below. 

For, tho' soft and white, it is yet a pall. 
There were flowers last summer upon the plain, 

The fairest that ever my eyes did see; 
Others may bloom there, but never again 

Will those same sweet blossoms look up to me ! 
With what earnest trust did each morn unfold 
'fi Rich petals, touched with the costliest dye, — 
'Tis a human tale, and a story old : 

The weeds are spared while the flowers die. 
Then gently, ye spirits that wreathe the snow, 

A delicate robe for the earth's cold breast, 
Touch softly each pale, withered leaf as ye go. 

Pillow kindly mj^ flowers, and let them rest. 



Gently, ye angels that make the chime • 

Of New Year bells, in their noisy glee, 
And bear, with fleet pinions, each moment of time 

With tireless zeal to Eternity; 
Gently, we know not of aught ye bring, 

But we know the good ye have borne away, 
And, distrusting the future, our spirits cling 

To a past that, escaping us, will not stay. 
Then gently and tenderly scatter the sum 

Of moments, that leap into hours as ye go, — 
The minutes are light as the flakes that come. 

But the hours more heavy than drifted snow. 
For hopes far more fair than the summer bowers, 

And lives more beautiful even than they, 
Have faded, have died with the summer flowers, — 

Gently strew o'er their bier the light minutes to-day. 



THE TWO GARDENS. 

I have watched our skillful gardener, 

At his cheerful, patient toil, 
As he brings to highest culture 

All the products of the soil ; 
And I wondered why was needed 

The unsparing pruning-knife, 
When the spreading branches pleaded 

For a little longer life. 

In my ignorance I asked him 

Why he did not let them grow 
Freely, in their full luxuriance, — 

Surely it were better so ! 
Knowing well the law that rules them, 

Quick to answer as to hear, 
Would they strive so hard for being 

Were they never bade appear? 

With an earnest smile he answered. 

Pointing to the blooming bowers 
And the trees with promise laden : 

"The design is fruits and flowers; 
And I love each tender blossom, — 

Every vine and shrub and tree 
Leaning upon earth's broad bosom 

Bears a message unto me. 

"To their many words I hearken, 

Aiding nature where I can. 
Grateful, watch their sure unfolding, 

Working out a perfect plan. 
Should I always let them wander 

At their wild will, fancy free. 
Training never, pruning never, 

What think you the end would be? 
60 



"Lengthening their decaying branches, 

Weaving meshes for your feet, 
Masses, tangled and unsightly. 

Little fruit would autumn greet." 
Then I ceased my rash upbraidings, 

For there came another thought, 
Drawn from this, a moral lesson. 

With a deeper meaning fraught. 

For within another garden, 

In the garden of the soul. 
Was another patient toiler. 

Striving for a perfect whole. 
But whene'er was needful pruning, 

Here a hope, there a desire, 
'Gainst Him earnestly I struggled, 

With an anger rising higher ! 

Ah, the wounds are sore and many 

Where His pruning-knife hath been, 
Even now are life-tears flowing 

All that garden's bounds within! 
But, uplooking to the harvest. 

Striving for a perfect whole, 
Still the patient Worker toileth 

In the garden of the soul. 



IN THE CITY. 

Oh, the loneliness of gazing 
Down the busy street, — 

Where the jostling crowds forever 
Mingle, part and meet, — 

Hearing no familiar footsteps 
In the coming feet! 

61 



Jesting words of recognition, 

Smiles of lip and eye, 
Voices full of mocking laughter ; 

Is there ne'er a sigh? 
Wave on wave the human flood tide 

Sweepeth gaily by ! 



BROTHER, COME HOME. 

Hearest thou never the pleading home voices 

Calling thee ever, earnestly calling thee, 
Whether, untroubled, thy spirit rejoices, 

Or pleasures are scattered, misfortunes befalling 
thee? 

Brother, come home! 

The homestead is lonely, one tone full of gladness 

We miss when the evening star gathereth all; 
Tho' our lips may be mute, tho' we smile in our sad- 
ness. 
Our heart with vain yearning repeateth the call. 
Brother, come home! 

Haste thy return, for the dark, auburn tresses. 

Thy mother's soft tresses, are fast growing gray ; 
On thy father's calm brow, which the silvered hair 
presses. 
The thick furrows broaden and deepen each day. 
Brother, come home! 

Oh, haste thee; or, when from the toil and the danger 

Thou seekest thy home, as a pilgrim his shrine, 
'Neath the shade of its roof-tree thou'lt sit as a stran- 
ger. 
With never a welcome from kindred of thine. 
Brother, come home! 

62 



SCANDAL. 

A sallow beldam, from whose path 

All sweet flowers shrink, fearing her wrath; 

Withered and wrinkled, too, is she, 

Like apple dried upon the tree; 

Peaked her nose, pointed her chin, 

Her lips close drawn, and very thin, — 

So thin, so sharp when they are stirred. 

They're keener than a two-edged sword ; 

And that is why, as logic teaches. 

She always makes such cutting speeches; 

Her words writhe through this fearful pass, 

A strange, distorted, loathsome mass. 

Creep out into the world, fell spies, 

Assuming many a fair disguise; 

And when their fraud and flattery 

Gain of one's thoughts the entrance key, 

Woe to that trusting human soul 

Whose armor is not doubly whole! 



CHURNING-AND WHAT BRIDGET THOUGHT 
OF IT. 

As into the churn fast falleth the cream. 

Every drop quite alike doth seem, 

And never, amid such a general splutter, 

Can I tell, for the life of me, which is the butter. 

So I fasten the cover and lift the dash, 

And smile as I list to the sullen splash 

With each downward sweep of that merciless lash. 

While the cream, all defenseless, leaps madly away 

From the rough, cruel blows that unceasingly play! 

But there is no escape, though it rise to the top. 

Or down to the bottom despairingly drop, 

For a tireless tormentor is on its track 

63 



And, sooner or later, will bring it back, — 

Till, tired of retreating, the mass will abide 

No more of such warfare, all on one side; 

And angrily mutters, in whisperings low, 

''No more of such pelting will I undergo 

Submissively, tamely, — the future shall tell; 

If blows I must take, I can give them as well. 

Let them strike as they will, they'll recoil from the 

fun. 
For the soft, silly buttermilk only will run." 
Enough, quite enough, take the dasher away, 
It was cream in the morning, it is butter to-day. 

Just so with the world, mused I in my turn. 
As I took the rich butter up out of the churn. 
My soft cream thus changed to so solid a ball. 
A strong hand was needed to mould it at all, — 
Just so with the world, small odds can be scanned 
While the skies are unclouded the breezes are bland, 
Like a huge jar of cream, till there comes an hour 
Of commotion, fierce trial with testing power! 
And then, even then, the resemblance holds true, 
For the world has its butter and buttermilk, too. 
As all cream is not butter, so, in the world's plan. 
The moral is plain if but rightly you scan, 
Society's buttermilk ne'er makes the man! 

LET THE WORLD WAG— A REVERIE. 

" Let the world wag," the saying is. I would be glad 

If wag it would 
Of its own self; in truth, it is too bad 

In wagging mood 
To crush so many people in its way. 

Who, if they could, 
Would spend in quiet all life's lengthened day 

In doing good. 

64 



Mind your own business, watch your own affairs, 

Are just as true. 
Quaint proverbs as the other, yet who cares 

Or old or new. 
Good, better, bad, or worse? Who strives to drag 

Them up to view? 
I wish the world, which claims such right to wag, 

Would add these, too. 

I've read a page or two of life, and cry enough 

Of its false shows, — 
So much of needless making smooth paths rough 

By cruel blows ! 
So much of smiles, when one sweet answering smile 

The heart ne'er knows! 
So much of smooth-tongued hypocrisy and guile,— 

And thus it goes! 

Let the world wag! I'm willing, wag it may 

From eve till dawn. 
And from the dawn until another day. 

On, and still on, — 
I yield its captious smiles no power to sway ; 

So, frown or fawn. 
Wag up or down, I care not, if its way 

Let mine alone. 



ANSWER ME. 
BY FLORENCE PERCY. 

If you love me, friend, to-night, 

Treat me tenderly ; 
Let me rest my wearied head 

Here upon your knee; 
And the while I question you, 

Prithee, answer me — 
Answer me ! 

65 



Is there not a gleam of peace 
On this tiresome earth ? 

Does not one oasis cheer 
All this dreary dearth ? 

And does all this toil and pain 
Give no blessing birth ? 
Answer me ! 

Comes there never quiet, when 
Once our hearts awake ? 

Must they then forevermore 
Labor, strive and ache ? 

Have they no inheritance 
But to bear — and break? 
Answer me ! 



I ANSWER THEE. 

Sitting in the dreamy twilight 

Of far northern Maine, 
List I to the pleasant rustling 

Of the golden grain ; 
Upward, through the leafy curtains, 

Watch I where the night 
Robes herself, counting her jewels 

In the waning light ; 
Smile I at the wondrous stories 

Whispered soft and low 
By the laughter-loving wood nymphs, 

Just for me, you know ; 
But above the silken rustle, 

Out upon the plain. 
Where the fickle breezes dally 

With the autumn grain, — 
Louder than the breath-like whispers 

In the shadowy dell, 
Where the loving, sweet-toned voices 

Fairy legends tell, — 

66 



From the distant Forest City, 

By the moaning sea, 
Comes a wail of bitter anguish, 

Friend, I answer thee. 
Thus I answer thee! 

Once, — nay, ask me not the question 

Where it was. or when. 
Till my wounded soul be stronger, 

I may tell thee then, — 
Once, like thee, alas, I questioned 

Of the hand of fate. 
Till I turned away in loathing, 

Bitter scorn and hate. 
And I said, "Earth is a bankrupt 

In all else but woes ! 
Life is but an arid desert. 

Not a good thing grows!" 
Oh, the anguish of that spirit 

Groping in the dark, 
'Wildered by the real and seeming. 

Made the tempter's mark! 
Oh, the many ships, full freighted, 

On the sea of life. 
Gaining nevermore the harbor. 

Wrecked amid the strife ! 
And my soul was nigh to fainting, 

Asking but to lave 
In the wild Lethean River, 

Drinking deep its wave. 
Then the murmurs of the forest 

Came so soothingly 
That I wandered, half unknowing. 

Where they called to me, — 
In the teachings of the wild wood. 

Friend, I answer thee. 
Thus I answer thee! 

67 



Like a little child the sunshine 

Danced in joyousness, 
Every flower in welcome greeting 

Wore its richest dress; 
All things, in their places, perfect, 

E'en the tiniest there, 
As if the great Architect 

Gave it all His care. 
Asked I why such perfect beauty, 

Such o'erflowing bliss, 
Garnered by a hand unsparing 

For a world like this — 
For a world that doth inherit 

From the olden time 
Hate for everything like merit, 

Love for dazzling crime? 
Then a low, sweet voice made answer: 

"Judge not weakly now; 
If God loveth and forbeareth. 

Mortal, may not thou? 
Lo, they crucified the Saviour, 

Crowned in cruel scorn ; 
What art thou that thou dost murmur 

At a single thorn? 
Life is but a little moment, 

Though it seems so long; 
Shrink not from the trial, — 

Suffer, and be strong. 
Though the weak world praise or taunt thee. 

Know not pride nor fear, — 
Life is but a span at farthest. 

And its Judge not here. 
Gird anew thy loosened armor. 

Toil all trustingly, 
For, according to thy labor. 

Thy reward shall be. 

68 



Soon will evening shadows gather, 

And the race be run ; 
Blessed thou, if smiles the Father, 

'Child, thou hast well done,' — " 
Thus the earnest spirit struggled 

Faithfully with me, 
And the substance of its teachings, 

Friend, I tell to thee. 
Thus I answer thee ! 

KISS ME BEFORE YOU GO. 

Your path lies over the hillside, 

Out in the rain and the sleet, 
Out in the world's wild turmoil 

Where business and bustle meet; 
And mine, by the noiseless fireside. 

Where the fanciful embers glow 
With a changeful, lifelike motion, — 

Kiss me before you go ! 

My quiet way will be haunted 

With visions none other can see, — 
Glances more precious than diamonds. 

Smiles full of meaning to me; 
The sound of a welcome footstep, 

A whisper thrillingly low, — 
Ah, thought will clasp memory closely! — 

Kiss me before you go ! 

For this world hath a thousand mischances ; 

And one of those chances may fall 
That us two ne'er again by the firelight 

Make one shadow upon the wall! 
Then, yet once more, ere the parting, — 

Alas, that it must be so, — 
Leave me a fond benediction, — 

Kiss me before you go ! 
69 



MRS. ELIZABETH PRATT. 

We miss her by the fireside, 

The ruling spirit there. 
And her pleasant face at the house of grace,- 

We miss her everywhere. 
Yet how earnestly she labored, 

How faithfully, how well, 
The good seed sown in humble prayer 

Shall the coming harvest tell. 

Though the circle groweth smaller 

That earthly eyes can see. 
Yet we know that Heaven is nearer 

By a love so full and free ; 
That, while with tears and blessings 

We follow the path she trod. 
She hath passed the outer gateway 

And dwelleth with her God. 



"SHAKE HANDS." 

Not that I look exactly like 

The picture by that name — 
Though the well-faU'd kitchen table 
And the dough pan I may claim- 
Yet she must have been a Bridget, 
And I am — just that same! 

And the editor has shown me 

A humble little nook, 
Quiet and unpresuming, 

Where upon you I may look — 
If I don my clean white apron, 

Draw my face down like a book! 

70 



Yet we are not quite strangers.. 

Although this goodly ship 
Leaves port this morning gaily, 

Upon her trial trip, — 
I've sailed with you before, 

Made your toast and butter-dip. 

Perhaps you didn't know it, 

'Tis not strange you should forget, 

Sometimes folks don't remember 
The good turns they may get ! — 

"Shake hands?" Ah, well, no matter, 
We may be good friends yet. 



CHANGE. 

Were the sunshine always smiling, 

Did the storm-clouds never frown, 
Earth would soon become a desert, 

All its hillsides bare and brown. 
Though the blossoms, bending lowly, 

Bow beneath the cruel blast, 
There's a richer, purer fragrance 

When the rushing rain is past. 

Were the sweet flowers always blooming, 

Fading never from their prime, 
There would be no ripened fruitage, 

Be no grateful harvest time. 
Did the heart ne'er lose an idol. 

Were no twining tendrils riven. 
Earth would be a home so blissful 

We should never long for heaven. 

71 



THE FIRE-FIEND. 

He awoke in the depths of the forest, 

One beautiful morning in May, 
And his breath was Hke the sirocco, 

As onward he forced his way; 
The violets shrank at his coming, 

And hid 'neath the sheltering green. 
But the might of the fire-fiend was stronger 

Than the wand of the wildwood queen. 

He was famished and faint with his slumber, 

And, with eager but stealthy quest, 
He sought where the faithful song-bird 

Twittered around her nest; 
While the young leaves, glancing upward. 

Trembled with sudden fear 
As his hot breath swept among them, 

And his glowing tongue drew near. 

There were treasures the year had hoarded 

For the springtime to unfold, 
Treasures most carefully guarded 

From the winter's searching cold; 
And so gently had Spring unwrapped them, 

That we could but faintly see 
In the fairylike things before us 

How lavish the gifts would be- 
But the fire-fiend was wolf-like with hunger,- 

The weak and the helpless must fall, — 
And he drank up the musical bird-song, 

Unheeding the anguished call! 
All the lovely things that were garnered 

For the beautiful children of May 
Made but a delicate morsel 

In the line of his march that day! 

72 



At last, from the tallest tree-top, 

Away to the east he espied 
A white-roofed New England village 

Reposing in peace beside 
A softly murmuring river, — 

Then he hissed in his fiendish glee, 
"Behold the spire and the house-tops, — 

I'm hungry — there's food for me!" 

Then he sprang on the wings of the whirlwind, 

And onward with lightning speed — 
On, though the quivering forest 

Swayed like a bruised reed. 
Tossing its blackened arms wildly. 

Bowing low at its grievous loss — 
On, to the bank of the river! — 

Ah, 'twas but a step across! 



Then he grasped at the shrieking children. 

While the hearthstone he rent in twain ! 
And he followed the babe and its mother 

As they fled from the scene of pain ; 
While strong men groaned in spirit. 

On that peaceful Sabbath day. 
As the toil of so many weary years 

In a moment was swept away! 



He was lashed to an awful fury, 

And his tongue of circling flame 
Drew in homestead after homestead. 

But his cry was still the same ; 
Till his fearful length was shadowed 

From the stream to the far-off spire, 
And the whole of that fated village 

Was girded with billowy fire! 

73 



Then, gorged, he withdrew to the forest, 

To rest him its shades within. 
But the blackness of desolation 

Marks where his steps have been; 
Where yesternoon there was gladness 

And plenty, in rich array. 
Mourning in dust and ashes, 

A village bows low to-day. 
Prksque Isle, May 14, 1860. 

DAGUERREOTYPE. 

The dark clouds gather thick and fast, 

The beautiful bright blue 
By such dense shadows overcast. 

No sun-ray struggles through; 
A white mist veils the landscape. 

While the tired and weary day, 
Peevish as a half-sick child, 

Will neither work nor play. 

But in an idle, restless mood, 

With many a needless frown. 
Scatter the soft-winged flakes of snow. 

Like white doves dropping down — 
Unpitied on the blackened street, 

Where broad the earth-stains lie, 
In all their shrinking purity, 

Alas, how soon they die! 

And when to-morrow's sun shall glance 

Athwart the place they fell, 
No vestige that they ever lived 

Their hapless fate shall tell! 
They will their whole of duty do, 

They will leave no mark nor name. 
Ah, me, how many human lives 

Have perished just the same! 

74 



GEORGE W. PRATT. 

To our homes, far away in the forest, 

A dark-winged angel came, 
And culled from our household treasures, 

Such did the Master claim — 
Those to our hearts the closest, 

Where our love had made its throne, 
Unheeding oft the warning 

That they were not ours alone. 

God gave and He hath taken ; 

Yet our eyes are with tears so blind 
We can see no silver lining 

The gloomy clouds behind. 
Ah, so grievous are the sobbings, 

We can but faintly hear 
The voice of another angel. 

Though the Comforter is near. 

In one home, by the dark wing shaded, 

Was a youth, in the morning glow 
And joy of his early manhood, 

But he calmly turned to go. 
Not a thought of himself — all his feeling 

For others seemed to be; 
"Weep not," he said, as they sorrowed. 

"Oh, do not weep for me! 

"But sing, that my soul may hear you, 

As over the portal gray 
My footsteps are heavily toiling. 

The echo of 'Passing Away.' 
Ah, sweet is the well-known music. 

But a sweeter will come again. 
Yet a little farther onward 

I can almost catch the strain. 

75 



"In the bright land where I'm going 

There will be no shade of death ; 
Tell the children that I loved them 

With my latest breath." 
Silent grew he, and so weary 

That we laid him down to rest, 
With his cherished badge of honor * 

Still sparkling on his breast. 

* Union Eagle. 

TO THE AROOSTOOK VOLUNTEERS. 

Brothers, a blessing, proud though so full of pain. 

Loyal Aroostook giveth to you ; 
Though her firesides be lonely, her tears like the 
falling rain, 

Treason imperils the red, white and blue. 

She would not withhold ye who thus to the standard 

fly; 

Dearer than ever she bids you away. 
Shall the starry flag waver? Hark to the olden cry: 
"Freedom or death," rings the watchword to-day! 

Oh, better, a thousand times, death on the battle- 
field, 
Struggling for country and freedom, like men. 
Than the doom which stern justice shall yet to the 
traitor yield, 
Safe though his years may glide threescore and 
ten. 

Then on to the rescue where wrong would a nation 
slay! 

Trust in a righteous God, whate'er befall ! 
Forget not, wherever shall duty appoint the way. 

Eye of love, heart of faith follows you all. 

76 



IF THE SOUL IS BEAUTIFUL. 

If the soul is only beautiful, 

What though the body be 
But rough in its outward seeming, 

If it keep that spirit free — 
Unharmed by the world's rough contact- 
Unstained by the touch of sin- 
Like a casket, whose only duty 
Is the jewel enshrined within? 

Some day the body so wearied 

With age, with toil or with care, 
Will yield to the strain of the pressure, 

But the spirit, whose worth is so rare 
That the wealth of the world could not ransom. 

That th' Saviour alone could restore. 
Will go higher, to its resetting. 

When He counteth His jewels o'er. 



SONG. 

Ask me not for a song to-night. 

The tones would sadness borrow ; 
Thine own glad voice would feel the blight; 

But I'll sing with thee to-morrow. 

Ask me not for a smile to-night. 
My brow hath another furrow. 

And my quiv'ring lip refuseth quite; 
But I'll smile with thee to-morrow. 

I cannot smile nor sing to-night. 

My heart is full of sorrow, 
Soothingly calm is the sad moonlight 

I will smile and sing to-morrow. 

77 



Then leave me all alone to-night, 

To wrestle with my sorrow, 
Alone, with naught but the dreamy light; 

I'll be gay with the gaudy morrow. 



OH, FOOLISH MILLER! 

Foolish miller! circling, fluttering 

Nearer to the brilliant light ; 
Don't you know it cares not for you — 

That its touch would kill you quite? 
Go away, the sky is pleasant, 

Out of doors the night is sweet, 
And the air is pure and fragrant 

With the breath of flowers replete. 

Go in peace! Infatuation 

Stronger grows while near you stay ; 
And the lamp burns clearer, brighter, 

You had better go away. 
Break at once the magic circle — 

You are quite bewildered now. 
Thinking how 'twere best approaching,- 

You had better not learn how. 



What a pleasant song the taper, 

In low, fitful murmurs, sings, 
'Twere not best that thou shouldst listen, - 

Foolish miller, lost thy wings! 
Up the light in triumph rushing, 

Folds him in its blinding glare; 
Wrecked in beauty and in being — 

He bemoans too late the snare. 



78 



Ah, how many with a birthright 
Far above the silly moth, 

Circle round some gay temptation- 
Drawing nearer, nothing loth; 

Heeding not this simple lesson; 
Counting not the fearful cost, 

Till one day a weeping angel 
Writes — a priceless soul is lost! 



MOONLIGHT. 

Who can gather up the brightness 

Of the moonlight, as it plays 
With such living, airy lightness. 

Like the dancing of the fays? 
Now, with witching grace, coquetting 

With the pure, white clouds above, 
Till they, almost half regretting. 

Sweetly blush with timid love. 
Beautiful in midnight splendor. 
Bringing visions dreamy, tender, 

Is the moonlight on the clouds. 

Now upon the waters, glancing. 

Where the swiftest ripples whirl, 
And the naiads, lightly dancing, 

Wear their richest robes of pearl — 
Jeweled robes, whose varied sparkling 

Shames earth's high-wrought diadems, 
While the eddies' shadowy darkling 

Adds new lustre to the gems. 
Minstrel winds make soft, entrancing 
Music for the sweet nymphs dancing 

With the moonlight on the waves. 

79 



Soft its touch, full of caressing, 

On the leaves that tremble much — 
Tremble with excess of blessing 

At that gentle, thrilling touch. 
Is it strange that lovers listen 

With wild joy to ardent vows, 
When the softening love-rays glisten 

On the overhanging boughs? 
Rare love-teacher, from the olden. 
Teaching young hearts lessons golden, 

Is the moonlight 'mong the leaves. 

Gentle fairies from their bowers 

Slyly creep, cheered by its smile, 
Giving their protegee flowers 

Purest gems of dew the while ; 
Till the forest, upland, meadow, 

Show rich traces of their care. 
E'en the leaves the trees o'ershadow 

Gleam with jewels, quaint and rare. 
While our souls such beauties gather, 
Bless the loving, watchful Father 

For the moonlight pencilings. 



MY BIRTHDAY. 

I stand midway on my journey. 
And behold where the rising sun 

In a flood of crimsoning radiance 
Told of a life begun. 

And I look far away to the westward, 
An untraveled and lengthening plain. 

See the tops of the Mountains of Evening 
Where that sun will set again. 

80 



Around me the glare of the noonday, 
Yet back glancing well do I know 

That my footsteps have passed the meridian 
By the shadows beginning to grow. 

Yet, if with brave heart I press forward, 
Nor murmur and faint by the way, 

I need fear not when deepening shadows 
Come with the closing day. 

For when the last gleaming of sunset 
Shall fade in the softening west, 

A kind guide is coming to bear me 
Away to the land of rest. 



BUILD UP THE WALL. 

Two friends there were, who ever shared 

Each other's cares and pleasures, 
For whom, when griefs no longer spared, 

Love filled the sinking measure. 
Their wishes, dreams, ambitions, one, 

One prayer their spirits making, 
That they might have, when night came on, 

One sleep and one awaking. 

A foolish thing, that forth again 

A look, a word had driven. 
Made wider distance and more pain 

Than death each tie had riven ; 
What though their paths be gloomy all, 

And each a weary rover? 
Build higher yet the angry wall. 

Let neither one look over ! 

81 



THE RAIN-SPIRITS. 

All the night without is starless ; 

Angry storm-clouds fill the sky ; 
While, with fitful gusts and changes, 

Moaningly the winds go by. 
Musingly I list the raindrops 

Tapping at my window pane; 
Some are bold, and some are timid — 

Darling spirits of the rain. 

So I open wide my casement, 

Lay my flushed cheek on the sill, 
Bid them freely come and enter, 

Go or stay, e'en as they will. 
And I hear them coming, coming, 

Downward through the shadowy gloom. 
Till their welcome footsteps greet me. 

Like a loved one's, in my room. 

How they bathe my throbbing temples 

With their soft, cool finger-tips ! 
Loving, gentle, dewy, tender 

Are their kisses on my lips ; 
And they sing familiar ditties, 

Plaintive ditties, sweet and low. 
Just such pleasant, wayward fancies 

As they sang me long ago. 

How caressing is each movement. 

As their soft arms round me twine. 
With their cool hands on my forehead. 

And their cool lips upon mine! 
How they fan away my fever, 

The weird fever of the brain ! 
Ah, what dear friends, kind and soothing, 

Darling spirits of the rain! 

82 



WHITHER? 

All day long do echoing feet 
Unceasingly sound on the city street, 
This way or that way, across and around. 
Restless humanity, lo! ye are bound — 
Whither"? 

The hurrying train is all day long 
Filled with a constantly changing throng, 
Each heart intent on its own full share 
Of joy or of sorrow which it must bear — 
Whither? 

There's a quiet place where at last they go. 
Kind hands supporting them, steady and slow, 
Wearily back to the earth again 
The worn-out mask they give — and then — 
Whither? 



THE BLESSED RAIN. 

The drouth hath been long and heavy. 
And fire hath scourged the land. 

But this morning a timid raindrop 
Caresses my outstretched hand. 

And whispers in joyful cadence 
Of millions of fairylike things 

Following fast, until the sun is hidden 
Behind their glancing wings. 

Each one hath a silver goblet 
With soft rain brimming o'er. 

And soon on the brown and thirsty earth 
Will their priceless wealth outpour. 

83 



Hist! do you hear the patter 

Of tiny feet up and down, 
Through the highways and the byways, 

Through the streets of the dusty town? 

Over the heated house-tops, 

Out by the panting herd, 
Until even the fainting brooklet 

By the loving touch is stirred. 

Oh, the rain, the blessed rain! 

How it comes like a healing balm ! 
I bare my head to its baptismal touch. 

To the voice of its mighty psalm. 



OVER THE HILL. 

Our Charlie in Heaven, the tablet said, 

Where the hills of old Oxford their shadows spread, 

And a restful quiet seemed to fill 

That home of the dead, just over the hill. 

Our Charlie in Heaven, the blossoms said, 
We are twining a wreath for the early dead. 
But we ever look upward with faith and love, 
For we know that our Charlie has gone above. 

Our Charlie in Heaven, the mourner said, 
With her hand on the stone, as upon his head, 
While the tears fell fast as she thought of the day 
And the hopes that died when he went away. 

Our Charlie in Heaven! Oh, blessed faith! 
The little ones hear what the Saviour saith! 
They go, and we follow, yet falter still. 
For the way to those mansions Hes "over the hill." 

84 



GONE. 

Gone! Oh, how sad is our darkened home! 

The very silence is pain! 
How we long for the patter of little feet, 
For the merry shout and the laughter swect,- 

We listen, but listen in vain. 

Yet even our mourning hath its joy, 

For the world is cold and wide. 
And our darling hath gone by a shorter way, 
No turning aside, no going astray, 

Safe to the other side. 



Our way may be rough, the thorns may wound, 

We may stumble o'er many a stone. 
But over the lilies so pure and so sweet, 
Not a bruise nor a stain on the little feet, 
The Shepherd hath claimed His own. 



UNFORTUNATE. 

Unfortunate, is he? Stumbled and fell, 

While your feet were firm and sure. 
The other day you flattered him well. 
Were proud of his notice, but who could tell 
That his standing was insecure? 

Unfortunate, is he? You need not know 

How slight the touch that could save. 
You slipped, he upheld you, not long ago. 
And his generous heart was all aglow 
With the aid he so freely gave. 



Unfortunate, is he? Trample him down. 

What right has he now to rise? 
What right has he anyway, even to dare, 
To strive for a breath of Heaven's pure air 

Or a glimpse of the starry skies? 

Unfortunate, is he? Those other days — 

Ah, that is his own affair. 
For only prosperous friendship pays. 
Misfortune is crime, so all the world says, 

He's down, now grind him there. 



ONE THANKSGIVING DAY. 

They gather once more at home to-day — 

The old and the young are there. 
The rooms are merry with laughter and song. 

Which I strive in vain to share. 
While days like this, and memories 

That many a heart hath known, 
Are calling me ever, through all the mirth. 

With a sweet, sad undertone. 

Around me the trooping children press, 

In happy and careless play, 
With eager question and mute caress. 

I answer as best I may; 
For I hear a voice they cannot hear — 

A breath like a murmured prayer 
A low "God bless you," and then, ah, me' 

I see but a vacant chair. 



THE EUROPEAN CONFLICT. 

If those who made the quarrel 

Had but to fight it out, 
Perhaps Napoleon would have 

A fiercer touch of gout; 
Would think again, before his voice 

The clash of arms should bring, 
Because somebody's cousin chanced 

To be Spain's chosen king. 

The field is hardly equal 

In those old centur}^ wars; 
The kings get all the glory — 

The peasants all the scars. 
To toil and wounds and thankless death 

The soldier blindly goes, 
That laurel wreaths may princely brows 

Crown victor at the close. 

We, on this side the ocean, ask. 

By fearful trial taught. 
For all this wealth of human life 

What great truth to be wrought? 
We wear a hat or coronet, 

And no one cares to frown; 
Yet all of Europe's in a fuss 

Just for a worthless crown ! 



LINES IN A PRIZE-BOOK. 

Life is a school, and we are pupils all. 
Oh! may we con our task with daily care, 
Be gentle, hopeful, earnest, patient, true. 
Content if for our toil the prize we share, 
And the Great Teacher's approbation fall 
Upon us at review. 

87 



THE HARDEST PART OF THE BATTLE. 

Soldiers who come from the battle-field 

May speak of the dreadful fray, 
Yet their words all prove the same thing true, 

Let the scene be what it may. 
Those who go forward to the front, 

'Mid the shout and the shock, may dare. 
But the motionless columns that sternly wait 

Have the hardest part to bear. 

They are eager to move; they long to rush 

Where the fate of the day is won ; 
But no order comes, since the weary halt, 

And still the fight goes on. 
Oh, fearful and sad are the sights they see, 

And fearful the sounds they hear, 
As the hapless wrecks from the terrible front 

Pass slowly by, to the rear! 

All unavenged, though their comrades fall, 

LTnblessed by the meed of praise, 
Yet duty and honor mark the course, 

And each quivering nerve obeys. 
They wait but the word of command, to advance 

Where action may valor show, — 
Oh, the hardest part of the well-fought field 

Those motionless columns know! 

There are battle-fields more than we dream to-day 

In the contest of Wrong and Right, 
Whence comes not the boom of the signal gun 

To betoken the deadly fight. 
For some the world hath its laurel wreath, 

Appearing so grand and great, 
While others, as fierce — but His eye o'erlooks, 

And the order is simply — wait! 



TAKE WHAT YOU WILL. 

Take, if you will, my houses; 

Take, if you will, my lands; 
I yet have a fairer mansion — 

A house not made with hands. 
My title is grand to look upon. 

Written in letters of gold, 
Clear as the light of the noonday sun, 

Mine, to have and to hold. 

Then take, if you will, my houses, 

My lands, where shadows lie ; 
Though you leave me ne'er a foot of earth, 

I've a home you cannot buy; 
Where jarrings cease— where all is peace, 

Nor trusted friends betray ; 
Nor fraud, with its host of legal lies, 

Can wrest my home away. 

LAND OF THE SKY. 

Zigzag, zigzag, 

Up the mountain side; 
Zigzag, zigzag, 

What a wondrous ride! 
Up above the tree-tops — 

Can we reach the sky? 
Up above the whole world — 

Can trouble come so high? 
Glimpses of the valley 

Like a fairy scene; 
Valley of the Little Folks, 

It surely must have been ; 
The gardens seem so tiny; 

The houses look so small ; 
The streams are threads of silver ; 

The trees are pigmies all. 
89 



THE LAND PIRATE. 

Not worst of all is the man v/hose home 

Is out on the restless sea, 
Who obeys no king, and who knows no law, 

No lord, save his captain free; 
Who careth for naught but the ringing gold, 

Like a brave man meets the brave. 
And after the short, fierce fight is o'er, 

There's the plank and the pitying wave! 

Tho' we turn with horror from strife like this, 

And our loathing do not deny. 
There is one who goes down to a deeper depth. 

And his name and his fame rank high. 
He comes with a friendly grasp of the hand. 

With greeting so cordial and kind, 
Thinks so much of your welfare — until you have need. 

You trust him, and what do you find? 

All this is but seeming, — his heart is as false 

As his smile that has changed to a sneer. 
While he robs you of money, of friends, of home, 

And of all that your soul holds dear. 
Ah, for honor and mercy commend me, instead, 

To the pirate and his crew. 
Where the very flag, with its symbol dread. 

Shows just what they mean to do! 



THE KEY. 

To do the duty nearest me, 
And try to do it well. 

Is the only key 

To the mystery 
Of life, that I can tell. 

90 



CHRISTMAS GARLANDS. 

Clouds of winter 

Chill with snow! 
Winds of winter, 

How they blow! 
But the holly 

Leaves are bright, 
Fairly shining 

With delight! 
And the holly 

Berries glow 
Rich and red, 

In spite of snow! 
For the merry 

Christmas cheer 
Crowns the fullness 

Of the year! 
And the holly, 

Brave and true, 
Has so much 

Of it to do! 
Twining garlands 

Everywhere ! 
Christmas garlands, 

Oh, so fair! 

BARNUM J. HINES. 

Rest, Christian warrior, the conflict is ended, 
Rest thee in peace, for thy labor is o'er. 

Tenderly thus thy worn, shattered armor 
Lay we aside, thou wilt need it no more. 

Rest, Christian warrior, sentinel, watchman, 

Faithful in all, hear the Master's "well done." 
Thou hast fought the good fight, take thy crown of 
rejoicing. 
For the battle is over, the victory won. 
91 



EASTER LILIES. 

"Consider the lilies" — 
The wonderful lilies, 
That have donned their richest raiment 
As they cluster by the way. 
The dainty lilies, 
The marvelous lilies! 
Lo ! the king in all his glory 

Cannot match the bright array! 
How they nod beside the windows, 

How they smile along the street, 
Till their gladness seems reflected 
In the faces that we meet. 
The fair, white lilies, 
The pure, sweet lilies. 
That so whisper of the Master 
As they cluster by the way. 
The priceless lilies. 
The heaven-sent lilies; 
Each leaf a bond of promise 
This blessed Easter day! 



RECOMPENSE. 

Take the world at what 'tis worth, — 

Do not let it grieve you, 
If when sweeps the winds from north 

Summer friends may leave you. 

Let them go — a broken staff — 
True hearts are the surer, — 

Rough winds bear away the chaff. 
Wheat is wheat, the purer. 

92 



AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

Standing at the portal 

Of the wonderland. 
Ah, did ever mortal 

View a scene so grand? 
Mountains upon mountains, 

Peaks on peaks arise; 
Some so very lowly, 

Some that pierce the skies. 

Doubt not the mythology 

Of the ages past. 
For, lo, the council chamber 

Of the gods at last! 
From that lofty summit 

Thunderbolts were hurled — 
Those not in the secret thought 

An earthquake shook the world! 



HURRAH FOR OLD KENNEBEC! 

Hurrah! Hurrah for old Kennebec! 

Hurrah for her sons and daughters! 
Hurrah that the tide sweeps far and wide, 

Down to the ocean waters! 

Hurrah for Osgood of Gardiner! 

A good, round three times three, men. 
For a true soul that could break the bowl 

And make of drunkards freemen. 

Hurrah for the Washingtonians, 

Whate'er the name or nation, 
May they onward move till the whole world prove 

One mighty delegation! 

93 



READY. 

One sigh for those we have left behind, 

So distant, and yet so near; 
One sobbing prayer that Heaven be kind 

To those whom we hold so dear, — 
And we turn to the future a fearless gaze — 

Unflinchingly question our fate, 
While we listen to what the oracle says, 

Neither depressed nor elate. 

For we will not bow if the fiat's range 

Be bitter, or harsh, or cold ; 
Should fortune be cruel, she yet may change 

If our greeting is brave and bold. 
So here's for a heart that is strong and true, 

Ready to labor and wait. 
Ready for all there may be to do, 

Let the struggle be small or great. 



DANDELIONS. 

By the side of the noisy city street. 
With little bare heads and little bare feet, 
With shrunken garments so thin and so old, 
Two children are gathering treasures of gold. 

For, spite of the blinding and v>^ithering dust, 
The grass blades are growing because they must, 
And nestling among them here and there, 
Is the pet flower of childhood, with jaunty air. 

Oh, children, so easily won from tears. 
Ye gather memories for coming years! 
Oh, blossoms, scarce risen to greet the sun, 
Ye've striven and conquered, your duty is done ! 

94 



LITTLE BIRD ON THE CHERRY TREE. 

Dear little bird, on the cherry tree, 
What is there of hope or of joy for thee; 
Nothing around thee but snow and sleet, 
Nothing for shelter and nothing to eat. 
While the north wind comes, in a vengeful row, 
And shakes every twig of the leafless bough. 
See, these crumbs to thine aid I fling, — 
Cold, wet and hungry, poor little thing! 

What, a cheerful song such a day as this ; 
A song full of love and tenderness, 
A happy song, without touch of care, 
And no ray of sunshine anywhere ! 
A song of triumph, full and clear. 
Of the good time coming, so near, so near! 
Dear little bird, on the cherry tree. 
Teach us the wonderful mystery! 



SHOULD WE? 

Should we fear to go back to a father's house 

After a weary straying? 
Ah, the love that beckons is tried and true, 
And the heartless world will be lost to view, 
Tho' its coldness hath chilled us thro' and thro' 

In the days of our long delaying. 

Should we fear to go back to our Father's house. 

The message with joy obeying? 
Oh, the wayside inns are but bleak and bare 
To the restful comfort that waits us there. 
To the welcome One knoweth so well to prepare, 

Our weariness all repaying. 

95 



ADOWN THE BAY. 

Adown the bay on the Fourth of July, 
With a freshening breeze and a cloudless sky, 

Watching the changing social law 
On board the beautiful Saginaw. 

For the groupings there and the groupings here 
Have each a history, plain and clear. 

Some cause a smile and some cause a sigh, 
Some but a glance as you pass them by. 

Silently, earnestly looking across^ 

Oh, say, can you tell the gold from the dross? 

While in dreamy panorama seen 

Is the little isle with its touch of green ; 

The city and country along the shore; 
The fisher's boat with its home-bound oar; 

The lighthouse, sentry of storm and gale; 
And the fading vision of one lone sail. 

Now a long, full breath, for adown the bay 
The ocean glimpse stretches away and away. 



RUTH HALL HINES. 

Rest thee, dear mother, the long day hath ended, 
Rest, thou hast borne well thy part, — 

Of the sure promises, by far the richest 
Was unto the pure in heart. 

Thine is that promise, that wonderful promise. 

Whose glory earth cannot unfold. 
And thine be the rapture, the "peace as a river," 

The joy that can never be told. 



GOOD-BYE. 

A long good-bye to thee now, old home, 

The blow hath fallen at last, 
The hopes that we held, the dreams that were ours, 

Are far away in the past ; 
For a stranger's foot is upon the sward, 

A stranger hath ta'en the key, 
A stranger giveth the watch and ward, 

And thou art won from me. 

And yet thou'lt miss me at times, old home, 

Though the stranger's hand should twine, 
With a touch as tender, in mute caress. 

Each flower and o'er-arching vine, 
Though the stranger, safe in thy fireside glow. 

Might even my claim deny. 
There are ties none other can ever know, — 

My dear old home, good-bye. 

ONE BY ONE. 

One by one do the days go by , 

A lengthening chain in ceaseless play. 

While sunshine and shadow with changes vie, 
But whence and whither, who can say? 
God knows. 

One by one do our hopes unclasp 

Their broken tendrils from things of earth, 

But to reach again with tremulous grasp, — 
And what is the trial and struggle worth? 
God knows. 

One by one pass on before, 

The friends we have loved so long and well, 
Pass on to the beautiful "shining shore," 
Why do we linger, who can tell? 
God knows. 

97 



IF I HAD. 

If I had a purse of gold 

Filled with fairy treasure, 
That, whate'er was bought or sold, 

Just so much would measure; 
Having still the olden charm 

From the fairy blessing. 
All of earthly joy or good 

In one full cup pressing: — 
Then what would I do, what would I do? 
Ah, that is a secret 'twixt me and you. 

If I had the power to be 

Swift as wishing speeded 
Over land or over sea, 

All unseen, unheeded ; 
Given to my will to say 

Whom I would discover. 
What I would for yea or nay 

To my foe or lover, — 
Then where would I be, where would I be? 
Ah, that is a secret 'twixt you and me. 



ARE THEY ALL THERE, MOTHER? 

Have they gathered once more at home, mother, 

Beneath the old roof-tree. 
Where a father's blessing, a mother's prayer 

Makes sacred the spot to me? 
Have they come from the North and come from the 
South 

To prove, as often before, 
That there's always room at grandfather's house, 

And welcome for still one more? 

98 



How well I know just where "Auntie" stands 

Upreaching for roguish Roy, 
Then eagerly turning to easy Earle, 

And the little pet baby boy. 
There are eyes of blue, there are eyes of brown, 

Wondering eyes full of angel lore. 
But no matter what color the eyes may be, 

When the feet reach grandfather's door. 

All there — are they all at home, mother? 

Nay, the West withholds its share. 
And stations a sentry of cruel miles 

We may neither bribe nor dare. 
But we know how the true hearts yearn, mother. 

Towards the wanderers out in the cold, 
Who can only glance back with a pitiful cry, 

But who may not seek the fold. 



NEARING THE RIVER. 

(ZELPHA HINE3 CLARK.) 

We are nearing the silent, mystical river. 
Our ranks thin fast as the night comes on — 

A message, a whisper, with white, radiant faces — 
Friends long loved and cherished smile and are 
gone! 

Gone, and our clasping hands cannot detain them. 
Gone on before, by a way we must go; 

Swelling the host in the mansion above us, 
Making still smaller our number below. 

But we are nearing the beautiful river. 
Though at the last we must cross alone ; 

By and by we shall all get over. 
By and by we shall claim our own, 

99 

L.«fC. 



THE BOATMAN PALE. 

Do you fear the boatman pale 

Rowing o'er the river? 
Would his coming make you quail, 

Make your pulses quiver? 
Did you ever listen, waiting, 

Lingering helpless by the shore, 
Shrinking with an untold terror 

When you knew him coming o'er? 
Ah, you do not know the changes 

When you look within the veil, 
Know the rare and radiant beauty 

Of the dreaded boatman pale. 

Had you waited by that river, 

Had you met him face to face. 
You had loved him then and ever. 

All your terror turned to praise. 
Would the memory of that meeting, 

Of that kindly whispered "wait," 
Of that true and tender greeting. 

Soften all the jeers of fate? 
For beyond is life, and deathless 

Love that nevermore shall fail. 
Faithful they that bear us over, 

Pilot true and boatman pale. 

S. WESLEY STRATTON. 

He resteth so sweetly, so peaceful and still, 
He knoweth no sickness, no pain and no ill ; 
From this chrysalis state he hath broken away — 
His pure soul hath thrown off its dwelling of clay. 

He resteth. He resteth — ah! wonderful joy 
To see as now seeth the dear, patient boy. 
Earth-blinded, we cannot such beauty behold. 
"By and by, some sweet day," will the glory unfold. 

100 



THE TWO BRIDES. 

I sit by my window this fair spring day, 

And close upon either side, 
Only a step, just over the way. 

Is a beautiful, beautiful bride. 
And which is most lovely you scarce can tell, 

For one is a blushing rose. 
The other a lily with touch of grace 

That never the earth-land knows. 

One reigneth a queen in her own proud might, 

And twined in her nut-brown hair 
The frail orange blossom bloometh bright, 

And maketh her still more fair. 
Around her is music and mirth and song, 

Love bringeth a bounteous dower, 
While the pride and joy of that happy throng 

Is the belle of the bridal hour. 

The other, speak gently, there's crape on the door. 

Step lightly with reverent care, 
Sing the sweet, solemn song of the psalmist of yore. 

While the bridegroom tarrieth there! 
Oh, how pure is the bride in her peaceful rest, 

With her robings of heaven's own hue, 
The tiny, white hands softly laid on her breast. 

Busy hands that have no more to do ! 

Blessed Alice, too pure for a dwelling of clay, 

The darling of young and of old ! 
Thou art called to a glorious mansion away, 

Thou one precious lamb of the fold! 
We come with heart greetings, in silence, to bring — 

Where words all so meaningless prove — 
Sweet flower among flowers, our best offering, 

Our deepest and holiest love. 

101 



VERY TRUE. 

It is easy to say, when the world goes smooth 

And whatever we would is won, 
When we scarcely can ask when an answer comes, 

"Thy will, O Lord, be done." 
For it simply means, though in courtly phrase 

The sentences glow and shine, 
"I cannot give up my own sweet ways. 

My will, O Lord, be thine." 

But let the pathway grow rough, all untried, 

Till in weary bewilderment lost. 
Let the perfumed flowers become wounding thorns, 

Let every hope be crossed. 
And how few that can breathe that holy prayer 

With never a moan of complaint 
In a time that shall try e'en the innermost soul 

And prove them sinner or saint. 



WHEN THE MASTER CALLETH. 

When the Master calls me, shall I be ready? 

When the Master calls me, tell me, pray! 
When the Master calls me, shall I be ready. 

Whether it be to-morrow, or whether it be to-day? 

When the Master calls me, will my work be finished? 

In the vastness of Eternity standing midway. 
Workmanlike and promptly, will each task be fin- 
ished, 

That which was before and that which is to-day? 

When the Master calls me, oh, soul, answer me. 
When the Master calleth, what will ye say? 

Are the ripe sheaves gathered, or, empty-handed. 
Must I seek His presence, should He call to-day? 

102 



SEASONABLE. 

Drip, drop, drip ! 

Rain, rain, rain! 

Pour, pour, pour! 
Till we think in despair of the time of Noah! 
Surely forty days hath been passed, and more, 
Yet we look with a sigh for the symbol of peace. 
Hath the rainbow been lost that the flood doth not 

cease? 
How we shiver and shrink, how we fret, all in vain. 
Held at the will of the merciless rain, 

The gloomy, pitiless rain! 

Drip, drop, drip! 

Rain, rain, rain! 

Pour, pour, pour! 
It may be, perchance, that in other ways 
We think, with a sigh, of the sunshiny days, 
That we shiver and shrink with a terrible dread 
From the dull, dreary darkness, the frown overhead. 
Yet who shall dare question the smile or the frown? 
His blessing at last, like a rainbow, may crown — 

Wonderful, glorious crown! 



HAVE YOU SEEN MY DARLING? 

Tell me have you seen my darling 

Little one, 
Making merry all the household 

With her fun? 
Listen, can you hear her footstep 

On the stair? 
Hear the music of her prattle 

Anywhere? 

103 



She hath vanished from my clasping, 

Oh, my pet! 
And I can not rest without her 

Even yet. 
I have looked through rooms deserted 

All in vain, 
But the mocking of my calling 

Comes again. 
While the days still lengthen, lengthen, 

Lengthen still. 
And I cannot find my darling, 

Come what will, 
Meeting everywhere with tokens 

Of my pet, 
Oh, I cannot rest without her. 

Nor forget! 



HALL'S MILL, HARTFORD, ME. 

Ah, the water have disbanded. 
Left the old mill lonely, stranded, 
Silent all its busy humming, as its 

Great wheel turns no more. 
Shattered every beam and rafter, 
Hvished all sound and merry laughter. 
And the tired feet of the builder 

Have sought the other shore. 

And that graveyard on the hill — 
How our pulses throb and thrill 
As we trace the names so cherished. 

Household names we loved the best. 
As with faltering words, low spoken. 
From each mound we bear a token, 
That at last our steps have wandered 

Slowly by each place of rest. 

104 



THE BRIDE OF WINTER. 

We shall soon a bridal see, 
Earth has lost her lovers three, 
She is growing old and gray, 
She must marry while she may, 
Time will no more suitors bring, 
She will wed the Winter King. 

Lo, the bridesmaids dancing down 
Over hill and valley brown, ^--': 
With their touches, soft and light, 
Robing poor old earth in white, 
Deftly hiding here and there 
Every trace of age or care. 

Can this beauty be the same 
That young Spring a- wooing came? 
Did the Summer's courtly grace 
Bring fresh roses to her face? 
Or the Autumn, proud and grand, 
Urge his gifts with lavish hand? 

Stately now, and calm, is she, 
Robed as such a bride should be— 
Laces wrought with dainty care, 
GHnt of diamonds everywhere; 
Flowers? nay, flowers are common things 
Never such this bridegroom brings. 

So, if flowers are seen to-day, 
Hidden from his touch are they, 
Else bespangled at such cost. 
Every fragrant hfe were lost. 
Brilhant must his fair bride be- 
As an iceberg— what cares he? 

105 



APRIL. 

Why so many tears, young April, 
Tears, fast falling like the rain? 

Does thy labor seem all useless, 
All thy strivings but in vain? 

Art thou weary with the struggle 

Kissing cold lips into life? 
Wouldst thou cease the long endeavor, 

Rest thee from the toil and strife? 

Yield not lightly thus, young April, 
Though thy care but deck the May, 

Though they call thee false and fickle, 
Seeing but thy changeful day. 

Though another claim thy garlands, 
Other names the poets sing, 

Shouldst thou falter in thy duty. 
Where the summer, where the spring? 

Ever thus hath been the measure. 

So as well to smile as weep, 
Till we reach the grand fulfillment. 

Some must sow that others reap. 



WALKING IN THE SHADOW. 

Walking in the gloomy shadow 
Where no sunlight ever came. 

Where each word of warmth and beauty 
Were a mockery to name — 

Where the flowers, if flowers there can be, 

Are so pale, of faded hue. 
Needing but the cheerful sunshine, 

Needing but the precious dew. 

106 



Lo, the song is hushed to silence, 
For the singer's lips are dumb! 

Only tears upon the blossoms 

Where the heaven-sent dew should come. 

Ah, if wisdom were but given 

To interpret this aright! 
Know our proud hearts need the sorrow, 

As the glaring day the night. 

Could we know the deepening shadow 
Speaks the hour before the dawn, 

We could walk by faith, nor murmur, 
Till the darkness should be gone. 



UNDER THE APPLE-TREE. 

I know just the nicest "summer retreat," 
Under an apple-tree, cool and sweet ; 

Where the flickering shadows race and run, 
Up 'mid the green leaves, out in the sun; 

Where clover, o'erlapping, of velvety sheen, 
Makes a carpet, the richest that ever was seen; 

Where luscious fruit, all crimson and gold. 
With generous wealth doth the brave tree hold. 

For its boughs are heavy and low and wide. 
And a rustic seat clings to its rustic side. 

At its foot a hammock swings and swings ; 
At its top a blithe bird sings and sings. 

Ah, dearly the children love to meet 
Under the apple-tree, cool and sweet. 

107 



CORA BELL COLE. 

How sad and lone hath the bright world grown ! 

Though they tell us our dai'ling is near, 
We list in vain for her songs again, 

And her foosteps we cannot hear. 
O Cora, dear Cora, our Cora Bell ! 

It is hard to say, through our tears, to-day, 
" He doeth all things well." 

From the witching ways of her childhood days 

To the grace of the maiden true, 
She our royal queen, and her realm hath been 

Every hope that our fond hearts knew. 
O Cora, fair Cora, rare Cora Bell ! 

We can hardly say, through our tears, to-day, 
"He doeth all things well." 

For the burdens of life, for its cares and strife, 
She hath taken the crown of peace. 

And a glorified home hath the heaven become. 
Where she findeth such release. 

O Cora, dear Cora, our Cora Bell! 

We will humbly pray for strength to say, 
"He doeth all things well." 

When, at set of sun, He shall say, "Well done! 

Enter thou where the faithful be." 
All this anguish passed, we shall meet~at last 

In that blessed home with thee. 
O Cora, dear Cora, my Cora Bell ! 

We then can say, if we fail to-day, 
"He doeth all things well." 

108 



ALLIE. 

"I am so glad," sang a sweet, young voice, 

With triumph in each tone, 
"I am so glad that Jesus loves me. 

That Jesus His love hath shown." 



'Twas a cadence caught from the heavenly land ; 

But we could not, we would not, see 
He was leading her up with the blessed words : 

"Let the little ones come unto Me." 



Fainter grew the song till the voice was hushed, 

But her eye still of triumph told. 
Of a wonderful joy that we could not feel, 

Of glories we might not l^ehold. 

Lay each sacred treasure of child-love by, 

With tenderest touch and care, 
The dolls in the cradle are priceless now, 

For her dear hands placed them there. 

Fold the little dresses, embalmed with tears, 

She needeth them not again, 
She hath purer raiment of daintier grace, 

That can never soil nor stain. 

Darling Allie, thy smile ever beckoneth on 

Thy dear ones who love thee so ; 
The Shepherd hath taken thee, precious lamb, 

That they'll follow where thou dost go. 

109 



WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT A MOTHER? 

Such the motto fondly chosen 

Only yesterday — inwrought 
With each rainbow-tinted letter 

Brighter hues of loving thought. 
Home was always home with mother, 

Could there be a truer, better, — 
Came a message, anguish fraught. 

Saying: "Death hath claimed thy mother!'! 

What is home without a mother? 

What is sky without a sun? 
What is ocean without water? 

What is life when death hath won? 
What is home without a mother? 

Well we know, we who have sought her 
Through the lone rooms one by one. 

Home, ah me, home without mother! 

Once, at lightest touch of sorrow, 

Grief of heart or care of brain, 
."Mother" bore the balm of healing. 

Soothed the sorrow, stilled the pain. 
Patient, tender, blessed mother! 

Came to her all sad hearts, feeling 
They should not ask cheer in vain. 

Dear, unselfish, noble mother! 

Now, like avalanche the burden. 

And we cannot hear her prayer, 
Feel her touch, though we are kneeling 

Close beside her vacant chair. 
Oh, my mother, oh, my mother! 

It were joy beyond revealing, 
Could we see her sitting there ! 

What is home without my mother? 

110 



Hush! What is that breath-like whisper, 

What those words, like mother's own? 
"Look above in thy beseeching, 

God is love — then cease to moan." 
Brave, pure-hearted, Christian mother. 

By her life such lessons teaching; 
She shall reap as she hath sown, 

Home shall be in heaven with mother. 



THE BRIDE'S OPALS. 

How they gleam and glitter 

And flash and shine — 
Those wonderful jewels. 

The pride of mine. 

One time a wild sunbeam 

In curious way 
Went peering about 

Where in darkness they lay ; 

Was caught and imprisoned 

By fairy spell. 
In the heart of those jewels 

Forever to dwell. 

Outflashing, and eager 

At every turn, 
To find its lost freedom 

It vainly doth yearn ; 

For still the spell worketh, 

Still barred is the way 
For the poor, wayward sunbeam, 

Lost and astray. 

Ill 



MIRACLES. 

"An egg a chicken! Don't tell me, 
For didn't I break an egg to see? 
There was nothing inside but a yellow ball, 
With a bit of mucilage round it all — 

Neither beak nor bill, 

Nor toe nor quill, 

Not even a feather 

To hold it together. 
Not a sign of life could any one see. 
An egg a chicken! You can't fool me! 



"An egg a chicken! Didn't I pick 
Up the very shell that had held the chick, 
So they said, and didn't I work half a day 
To pack him in where he couldn't stay? 

Let me try as I please. 

With squeeze upon squeeze, 

There is scarce space to meet 

His head and his feet. 
No room for any the rest of him — so 
That egg never held that chicken, I know." 



Mamma heard the logic of her little man. 
Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can; 
Took an egg from the nest — it was smooth and round, 
"Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this 
sound?" 

Faint and low, tap, tap; 

Soft and slow, rap, rap; 

Sharp and quick. 

Like a prisoner's pick. 
"Hear it peep inside there!" cried Tom, with a shout ; 
"How did it get in, and how will it get out?". 

112 



Tom was eager to help — he could break the shell. 
Mamma smiled as she said, "All's well that ends 

well. 
Be patient awhile yet, my boy." Click, click, 
And out popped the bill of a dear little chick. 

No room had it lacked. 

Though snug it was packed. 

There it was, all complete, 

From its head to its feet. 
The softest of down, and the brightest of eyes. 
And so big — why, the shell wasn't half its size! 



Tom gave a long whistle. "Mamma, now I see 
That an egg is a chicken — though the how beats me. 
An egg isn't a chicken, that I know and declare. 
Yet an egg is a chicken — see the proof of it there. 

Nobody can tell 

How it came in that shell ; 

Once out, all in vain 

Would I pack it again. 
I^think 'tis a miracle, mamma mine. 
As much as that of the water and wine." 



Mamma kissed her boy. "It may be that we try 
Too much reasoning about things, you and I. 
There are miracles wrought, every day, for our eyes, 
That we see without seeing, or feeling surprise ; 

And often we must 

Even take on trust 

What we cannot explain 

Very well again. 
But from the flov/er to the seed, from the seed to the 

flower, 
'Tis a world of miracles every hour." 

113 



RUTH ROWLAND HALL. 

Half a hundred years, and more, since the day 
They stood side by side, that morning in May, 
And, with clasped hands, vowed until death to be 

true, — 
It was springtime then — and life was new. 



Half a hundred years! They had tasted all 

Of life together — its sweetness and gall. 

And their footsteps had reached the mysterious shore 

Where one must wait — one go on before. 



Without was the chill of a wdntry sky — 
Deep under the snow the spring flowers lie. 
The birds are hushed, and the winds are cold, — 
It is winter time — and life is old. 



Around them a stricken household band, 
Three generations of children stand — 
Yet all of them "children" — even they 
Of middle age, with a touch of gray. 



True in heart, pure in soul, with a perfect trust. 
The old couple joined hands, ere part they must. 
"Nearly fifty-five years, dear wife," he said, 
"Fifty-five years since we were wed." 



That was all, nothing more, words lost their power 
When heart spoke to heart in that solemn hour, — 
Ah, love is stronger than death can be, 
That hand-clasp said — for eternity! 

114 



A PARADOX. 

Hoarding, hoarding, hoarding, hoarding! 

Craving more than you can hold, 
Just a heap of clinking silver, 

Just a pile of yellow gold. 

And, within the bands of iron. 

House on house, and lands on lands, 

Just the title deeds and mortgage 
Wrested from outreaching hands! 

Thus you plan with greed and scheming, 

And the end of all will be 
Just a heap with sods piled over. 

That you may not care to see. 

Would you take your riches with you. 
Passing through the needle's eye? 

Ah, to keep them you must scatter — 
Paradox — the how and why. 



For this cold and soulless treasure 
You can make to throb and live. 

If you only know the key-word — 
And that wondrous word is give. 

You must go a way ye know not. 
You will lose what you withhold — 

What ye give will come unto you — 
Choose ye 'twixt the dross and gold. 

115 



WEDDING BELLS. 

To E. W. R. 

The Northland gives you a rare beau K., 

With a true lover's knot to bind, 
And the Southland sends you a fair bouquet 

With a wealth of love entwined. 

The rugged side of the mountain wide, 

And the sunny vale below, 
Yield their earliest bloom to the bonny bride 

In the far-away land of snow. 

Tender and true, the Southland bouquet 

Giveth all of its life to thee ; 
Thro' good and thro' ill may your Northland beau K. 

As true and as tender be. 



To Mr. and Mrs. C. C. K. 

Your lives have blended into one, 
Thro' summer or winter weather. 

And evermore, as you journey on, 
You will journey on together. 

LTnion is strength, if union be true. 

And love be the silken tether ; 
And the hardest tasks will be easy to do 

If you labor thus together. 

The trials of life will be easy to bear. 
Its cares not outweigh a feather, 

When one who loves you can claim a share, 
And you bear the burden together. 

116 



Bright be the skies along your way, 
And sweet the blossoming heather, 

While you advance to the perfect day, 
Onward and upward together. 

May your sorrows lessen, your joys increase, 
Thro' summer and winter weather. 

And all your paths be paths of peace 
As you journey on together. 



AFTER MANY YEARS. 

1846-1886. 

Forty years — as a tale that is told. 
Forty years — are we growing old? 

Old already, some will say, 
Glancing at the threads of gray. 

Glancing at the fading eye, 
At the wrinkles none too sly. 

Well, let the years still come and go. 
They may bring a richer glow : 

For children's children claim their way 
In our hearts and homes to-day. 

Old friends are the best of friends — 
Old scenes make for new amends. 

Though springtime bloom be fair and sweet, 
Is autumn fruitage less complete? 

When harvest fields are ripe with gold, 
It ne'er is said "they're growing old." 

117 



A GOLDEN WEDDING. 

For fifty years! For fifty years! 

Oh, rare and wonderful pleasure 
To count by years twoscore and ten, 

Of wedded life the measure ! 

We give you joy, with all our hearts, 
On this, your golden wedding, 

Whereon the love of all these years 
Its radiant light is shedding. 

The springtime bloom was fair and sweet 
That earlier wedding morning. 

Is autumn fruitage less complete 
This later one adorning? 

For children bring to you to-day 
Their meed of love and duty, 

And children's children crown your way 
With all their young life's beauty. 

When twenty-five swift years shall fling 

Their halo o'er the meeting, 
May children's children's children bring 

Your diamond wedding greeting! 

We wrote with stars just there because 
That seemed so fit an ending; 

Yet for ourselves add one more clause, 
Congratulations sending. 

May sorrows lessen, joys increase. 
Through spring or autumn weather, 

And may your paths be paths of peace 
As you journey on together. 

118 



TURNED OUT OF DOORS. 

Turned out by hearts 
That are colder than snow, 

Out into the streets, 

Where the wild winds blow. 

Yet storm and tempest, 

Assailing her there, 
Are naught to the fury 

Of her despair. 

Can she believe it — 

That she who hath known 
Friends without number. 

Is homeless, alone? 

Well she remembers 

The golden glow 
Of the beautiful hearthstone — 

So long ago! 

And the fair, young mother! 

Ah, could she rest 
In peace and quiet 

On that true breast ! 

Shut from all shelter — 

Oh, gates ajar! 
Can she find thy portals — 

Is heaven so far? 

119 



SNOWBIRD. 

Swift down, without swerving, straight from the 

skies. 
Looking in at my window so coyly wise, — 
Half thy beauty was caught from heaven. 
And half the shadow of earth hath given — 
What is the message that thou dost bring, 
Folded securely under thy wing? 
Surely I see it fluttering — 

Ah, the wild hopes toward thee thronging! 

The yearnings to hear from the loved and lost ! 
From one who so lately the river crossed ! 
The slightest token, the simplest word. 
Would be priceless now, — oh say, bright bird, 
What was the token she gave to thee? 
What was the message she sent to me? 
I scarce can be patient and wait to see. 
For my soul is restless with longing! 

OUR ROY. 
(Roy F. Bartlett.) 

Love is stronger than death. Love cannot die. 

An Infinite love all spheres enfolds. 
Though broken and shattered our fond hopes lie, 

Yet love, immortal, unites and holds. 

He has gone from our sight, but we feel that still 
He is near us ofttimes, in the dear old way. 

And ever, and ever, our pulses thrill 
At thought of what he may do or say. 

So, as best we can, we go on our way, 
Where at every step we so miss our boy. 

For we know, by faith, that some time, some day, — 
Some happy day, — we shall see our Roy. 

120 



ONLY A LITTLE WHILE. 

Words are so idle, dear friend, to-day. 
In this hour of your mighty sorrow ; 

Let me whisper, as softly as whisper I may, 
Still there cometh a morrow — 
Only a little while. 



This life, which seemeth so joyless and drear, 

So lengthened the way to follow, 
As you look down the vista of month and of year, 

So worthless, so empty and hollow — 
Only a little while. 



We grope, like a blind man, 'mid wonderful things, 

Unseen by our mortal vision; 
Like the blind restored, we shall know at last 

The glories of life elysian — 
Only a little while. 



The briefest span to work and to wait 
In the path that hath been assigned us, 

And the shadows of earth, its heartache and pain. 
Will be left afar behind us — 
Only a little while. 



Then the rapture of greeting those "gone before," 

Where death ne'er again can sever; 
Alone no longer and lonely no more, 

And the name of that place is Forever — 
Only a little while. 

121 



A WOMAN OF FASHION. 

She toils not, neither does she spin; 

But as for the arraying, 
You might as well again begin 

And make anew the saying. 



The lily may be fair to see, 

And rich, as color ranges, 
Yet, when once dressed, you must agree 

It has not many changes. 



This stately ladj^ full of grace. 
For very best of reason, 

Scorns anything so commonplace 
As one dress for the season. 



Of Wo7'th she has a great deal more 
(Her friends have means of knowing) 

Than that old-fashioned, modest flower 
In country meadows growing. 



So that goes by ; but as you gaze 
On dainty lips, soft smiling, 

AVell versed in all the winning ways. 
To mankind so beguiling, 



On shimmering silks, on gems that burn, 
With wealth of untold treasure, 

You wonder — does she never yearn 
For simpler, purer pleasure. 

122 



A MODERN MARRIAGE. 

Is it a marriage? — 

Bargain and sale; 
Glitter of diamonds ; 

A bridal veil ; 



A grand church wedding; 

Gifts by the score ; 
A trip to Europe ; 

And then — what more? 



Balls and receptions; 

Flirtations — or worse ; 
Quarrels and scandals; 

Perhaps a divorce. 



Pride may hold parley 
And sneeringly say, 

There is no such wonder 
As love to-day; 



Where hearts, unsatisfied, 
Hiding their pain, 

And longing to shatter 
The gilded chain. 



Yet, whether in palace 

Or lowly cot, 
There is no marriage 

Where love is not. 

123 



THE LOVE KNOT. 

She was tying a knot 
With daintiest grace, 

A far-away look 

On her sweet, young face ; 



A knot Uke a poem, 
Of mystical chime, 

Of happy heart-beats, 
In time and time, 



With fair forget-me-nots 
Running through. 

Quaintly embroidered — 
"Forever true." 



If old were the story 
She knew it well, 

For each double bow 
Had so much to tell. 



Each double loop. 
So strong and true. 

With fair forget-me-nots 
Running through. 



Oh, the knottiest knot 
The world can know, 

Is naught to the knot 
Of the double beau. 

124 



OUR MARY. 

Fair as the lily she gathers up, 
Pure as the breath from its fragrant cup, 
Untaught in the school of the worldly-wise, 
A humble maiden, akin to the skies, 
"Our Mary." 

Hating with all her honest heart 
Hypocrisy and canting art, 
Using keen words where words will tell. 
In everyday warfare we know so well, 
"Our Mary." 

Loving with all her loving heart 
The true, warm friends who espouse her part, 
Little cares she how the world goes on, 
So it lets her friends and herself alone, 
"Our Mary.". 

Thy innocence be thy shield, dear child. 
Keeping thee ever undefiled, 
Free from the cares of the worldly-wise, 
A humble maiden, akin to the skies. 
"Our Mary." 



REMEMBER— FORGET. 

Ah, ponder no longer with vain regret 

O'er memories gloomy, with teardrops wet, 

For sighs cannot lighten the clouds overcast, 

Nor pinings e'er brighten hopes dead with the past. 

They but darken the shadows and crush out the light, 
And leave, as thou gazeth, more desolate night. 
Then mourn thou no longer, nor vainly regret. 
Arise, be thou stronger, e'en learn to forget, 

125 



Remembering only that when thou didst stray, 
Some birds made sweet music to gladden thy way ; 
Some flowers were blooming the foul weeds among, 
Their richest perfuming abroad freely flung. 

Hoard each glance of affection, each word-glance 

arrayed ; 
Let the frowning and harshness in oblivion fade ; 
Forget not to treasure each good thou hast met ; 
But the wrong in thy measure, remember — forget. 



IN THE FOG. 

My vision is dim this morning 
With gazing far out in the mist. 

Where the shadowy boats glide softly, 
Like spectres no sun hath kissed. 

No ripple upon the waters. 

No dash of the dripping oar, 
They come like pictures from dreamland, 

They pass and are seen no more. 

And which is the sky or the ocean, 
And which is the land or the sea, 

And where is the sign of their greeting. 
Is a mystery to me. 

Even thus is my soul outreaching 

Afar to the dim unknown, — 
Bewildered with grasping at shadows. 

Drifting away alone. 

Enwrapped in the mists of the morning, 
So dim, yet so cold and gray, — 

And whether to shipwreck or shelter. 
My life-bark — oh, who can say? 

126 



,tB "^ i^^'* 









::BSr 



^mM 



®m?^ 




'^&^^^^^^ 



ii^- 




"S^MZ 









r^-^^ 



^^Slfe-.. 










rg^'^^ 



^¥^^^ 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 939 083 4 



